AMBROSE  BILRCD 


IN  1BR  MIDST 
OF 


49572 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
Th«  Neale  Publishing  Company 


S 


A   i 

i  9  o  q 
/v-S, 

PREFACE 
TO   THE  FIRST   EDITION 

DENIED  existence  by  the  chief  publishing 
houses  of  the  country,  this  book  owes  itself 
to  Mr.  E.  L.  G.  Steele,  merchant,  of  this 
city.  In  attesting  Mr.  Steele's  faith  in  his 
judgment  and  his  friend,  it  will  serve  its  au- 
thor's main  and  best  ambition. 

A.  B. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  Sept.  4,  1891. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  HORSEMAN  IN  THE  SKY    .........  15 

AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK  BRIDGE     .....  27 

CHICKAMAUGA     .............  46 

A  SON  OF  THE  GODS    ...........  58 

ONE  OF  THE  MISSING  ...........  71 

KILLED  AT  RESACA     ...........  93 

THE  AFFAIR  AT  COULTER'S  NOTCH    .......  105 

THE  COUP  DE  GRACE    ...........  122 

PARKER  ADDERSON,   PHILOSOPHER     .......  133 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  OUTPOSTS  ..........  146 

THE  STORY  OF  A  CONSCIENCE     ........  165 

ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER     ..........  178 

ONE  OFFICER,  ONE  MAN       ....     .....  197 

GEORGE  THURSTON    .......    ......  209 

THE    MOCKING-BIRD      .....     .......  218 

CIVILIANS 

THE  MAN  OUT  OF  THE  NOSE     .......     .  233 

AN  ADVENTURE  AT  BROWNVILLE  ........  247 

THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST     ........  266 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  APPLICANT 281 

A  WATCHER  BY  THE  DEAD 290 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  SNAKE 311 

A  HOLY  TERROR 324 

THE  SUITABLE  SURROUNDINGS 350 

THE  BOARDED  WINDOW 364 

A  LADY  FROM   RED  HORSE 373 

THE  EYES  OF  THE  PANTHER 385 


SOLDIERS 


A  HORSEMAN  IN  THE  SKY 


ONE  sunny  afternoon  in  the  autumn 
of  the  year  1861  a  soldier  lay  in  a 
clump  of  laurel  by  the  side  of  a  road 
in  western  Virginia.  He  lay  at  full 
length  upon  his  stomach,  his  feet  resting  upon 
the  toes,  his  head  upon  the  left  forearm.    His 
extended  right  hand  loosely  grasped  his  rifle. 
(But  for  the  somewhat  methodical  disposition 
of  his  limbs  and  a  slight  rhythmic  movement 
of  the  cartridge-box  at  the  back  of  his  belt  he 
might  have  been  thought  to  be  dead.    He  was 
asleep  at  his  post  of  duty.    But  if  detected  he 
would  be  dead  shortly  afterward,  death  being 
the  just  and  legal  penalty  of  his  crime. 

The  clump  of  laurel  in  which  the  criminal 
lay  was  in  the  angle  of  a  road  which  after 
ascending  southward  a  steep  acclivity  to  that 
point  turned  sharply  to  the  west,  running 
along  the  summit  for  perhaps  one  hundred 
yards.  There  it  turned  southward  again  and 
went  zigzagging  downward  through  the  for- 
est. At  the  salient  of  that  second  angle  was  a 


16     THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

large  flat  rock,  jutting  out  northward,  over- 
looking the  deep  valley  from  which  the  road 
ascended.  The  rock  capped  a  high  cliff;  a 
stone  dropped  from  its  outer  edge  would  have 
fallen  sheer  downward  one  thousand  feet  to 
the  tops  of  the  pines.  The  angle  where  the 
soldier  lay  was  on  another  spur  of  the  same 
cliff.  Had  he  been  awake  he  would  have  com- 
manded a  view,  not  only  of  the  short  arm  of 
the  road  and  the  jutting  rock,  but  of  the  entire 
profile  of  the  cliff  below  it.  It  might  well 
have  made  him  giddy  to  look. 

The  country  was  wooded  everywhere  ex- 
cept at  the  bottom  of  the  valley  to  the  north- 
ward, where  there  was  a  small  natural 
meadow,  through  which  flowed  a  stream 
scarcely  visible  from  the  valley's  rim.  This 
open  ground  looked  hardly  larger  than  an 
ordinary  door-yard,  but  was  really  several 
acres  in  extent.  Its  green  was  more  vivid  than 
that  of  the  inclosing  forest.  Away  beyond  it 
rose  a  line  of  giant  cliffs  similar  to  those  upon 
which  we  are  supposed  to  stand  in  our  survey 
of  the  savage  scene,  and  through  which  the 
road  had  somehow  made  its  climb  to  the 
summit.  The  configuration  of  the  valley,  in- 
deed, was  such  that  from  this  point  of  observa- 
tion it  seemed  entirely  shut  in,  and  one  could 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE          17 

but  have  wondered  how  the  road  which  found 
a  way  out  of  it  had  found  a  way  into  it,  and 
whence  came  and  whither  went  the  waters  of 
the  stream  that  parted  the  meadow  more  than 
a  thousand  feet  below. 

No  country  is  so  wild  and  difficult  but  men 
will  make  it  a  theatre  of  war;  concealed  in  the 
forest  at  the  bottom  of  that  military  rat-trap, 
in  which  half  a  hundred  men  in  possession  of 
the  exits  might  have  starved  an  army  to  sub- 
mission, lay  five  regiments  of  Federal  in- 
fantry. They  had  marched  all  the  previous 
day  and  night  and  were  resting.  At  nightfall 
they  would  take  to  the  road  again,  climb  to  the 
place  where  their  unfaithful  sentinel  now 
slept,  and  descending  the  other  slope  of  the 
ridge  fall  upon  a  camp  of  the  enemy  at  about 
midnight.  Their  hope  was  to  surprise  it,  for 
the  road  led  to  the  rear  of  it.  In  case  of  fail- 
ure, their  position  would  be  perilous  in  the 
extreme;  and  fail  they  surely  would  should 
accident  or  vigilance  apprise  the  enemy  of  the 
movement. 

II 

The  sleeping  sentinel  in  the  clump  of  laurel 
was  a  young  Virginian  named  Carter  Druse. 
He  was  the  son  of  wealthy  parents,  an  only 
child,  and  had  known  such  ease  and  cultiva- 


18      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

tion  and  high  living  as  wealth  and  taste  were 
able  to  command  in  the  mountain  country  of 
western  Virginia.  His  home  was  but  a  few 
miles  from  where  he  now  lay.  One  morning 
he  had  risen  from  the  breakfast-table  and 
said,  quietly  but  gravely:  "  Father,  a  Union 
regiment  has  arrived  at  Grafton.  I  am  going 
to  join  it." 

The  father  lifted  his  leonine  head,  looked  at 
the  son  a  moment  in  silence,  and  replied: 
"Well,  go,  sir,  and  whatever  may  occur  do 
what  you  conceive  to  be  your  duty.  Virginia, 
to  which  you  are  a  traitor,  must  get  on  with- 
out you.  Should  we  both  live  to  the  end  of 
the  war,  we  will  speak  further  of  the  matter. 
Your  mother,  as  the  physician  has  informed 
you,  is  in  a  most  critical  condition ;  at  the  best 
she  cannot  be  with  us  longer  than  a  few  weeks, 
but  that  time  is  precious.  It  would  be  better 
not  to  disturb  her." 

So  Carter  Druse,  bowing  reverently  to  his 
father,  who  returned  the  salute  with  a  stately 
courtesy  that  masked  a  breaking  heart,  left  the 
home  of  his  childhood  to  go  soldiering.  By 
conscience  and  courage,  by  deeds  of  devotion 
and  daring,  he  soon  commended  himself  to  his 
fellows  and  his  officers;  and  it  was  to  these 
qualities  and  to  some  knowledge  of  the  coun- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          19 

try  that  he  owed  his  selection  for  his  present 
perilous  duty  at  the  extreme  outpost.  Never- 
theless, fatigue  had  been  stronger  than  resolu- 
tion and  he  had  fallen  asleep.  What  good  or 
bad  angel  came  in  a  dream  to  rouse  him  from 
his  state  of  crime,  who  shall  say?  Without  a 
movement,  without  a  sound,  in  the  profound 
silence  and  the  languor  of  the  late  afternoon, 
some  invisible  messenger  of  fate  touched  with 
unsealing  finger  the  eyes  of  his  consciousness 
— whispered  into  the  ear  of  his  spirit  the  mys- 
terious awakening  word  which  no  human  lips 
ever  have  spoken,  no  human  memory  ever  has 
recalled.  He  quietly  raised  his  forehead  from 
his  arm  and  looked  between  the  masking  stems 
of  the  laurels,  instinctively  closing  his  right 
hand  about  the  stock  of  his  rifle. 

His  first  feeling  was  a  keen  artistic  delight. 
On  a  colossal  pedestal,  the  cliff, — motionless 
at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  capping  rock  and 
sharply  outlined  against  the  sky, — was  an 
equestrian  statue  of  impressive  dignity.  The 
figure  of  the  man  sat  the  figure  of  the  horse, 
straight  and  soldierly,  but  with  the  repose  of  a 
Grecian  god  carved  in  the  marble  which  lim- 
its the  suggestion  of  activity.  The  gray  cos- 
tume harmonized  with  its  aerial  background; 
the  metal  of  accoutrement  and  caparison  was 


20     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

softened  and  subdued  by  the  shadow;  tHe 
animal's  skin  had  no  points  of  high  light.  A 
carbine  strikingly  foreshortened  lay  across  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle,  kept  in  place  by  the 
right  hand  grasping  it  at  the  "  grip  " ;  the  left 
hand,  holding  the  bridle  rein,  was  invisible. 
In  silhouette  against  the  sky  the  profile  of  the 
horse  was  cut  with  the  sharpness  of  a  cameo ; 
it  looked  across  the  heights  of  air  to  the  con- 
fronting cliffs  beyond.  The  face  of  the  rider, 
turned  slightly  away,  showed  only  an  outline 
of  temple  and  beard;  he  was  looking  down- 
ward to  the  bottom  of  the  valley.  Magnified 
by  its  lift  against  the  sky  and  by  the  soldier's 
testifying  sense  of  the  formidableness  of  a 
near  enemy  the  group  appeared  of  heroic,  al- 
most colossal,  size. 

For  an  instant  Druse  had  a  strange,  half- 
defined  feeling  that  he  had  slept  to  the  end  of 
the  war  and  was  looking  upon  a  noble  work 
of  art  reared  upon  that  eminence  to  com- 
memorate the  deeds  of  an  heroic  past  of  which 
he  had  been  an  inglorious  part.  The  feeling 
was  dispelled  by  a  slight  movement  of  the 
group :  the  horse,  without  moving  its  feet,  had 
drawn  its  body  slightly  backward  from  the 
verge;  the  man  remained  immobile  as  be- 
fore. Broad  awake  and  keenly  alive  to  the 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE          21 

significance  of  the  situation,  Druse  now 
brought  the  butt  of  his  rifle  against  his  cheek 
by  cautiously  pushing  the  barrel  forward 
through  the  bushes,  cocked  the  piece,  and 
glancing  through  the  sights  covered  a  vital 
spot  of  the  horseman's  breast.  A  touch  upon 
the  trigger  and  all  would  have  been  well  with 
Carter  Druse.  At  that  instant  the  horseman 
turned  his  head  and  looked  in  the  direction  of 
his  concealed  foeman — seemed  to  look  into  his 
very  face,  into  his  eyes,  into  his  brave,  com- 
passionate heart. 

Is  it  then  so  terrible  to  kill  an  enemy  in 
war — an  enemy  who  has  surprised  a  secret 
vital  to  the  safety  of  one's  self  and  comrades 
— an  enemy  more  formidable  for  his  know- 
ledge than  all  his  army  for  its  numbers? 
Carter  Druse  grew  pale;  he  shook  in  every 
limb,  turned  faint,  and  saw  the  statuesque 
group  before  him  as  black  figures,  rising,  fall- 
ing, moving  unsteadily  in  arcs  of  circles  in  a 
fiery  sky.  His  hand  fell  away  from  his 
weapon,  his  head  slowly  dropped  until  his 
face  rested  on  the  leaves  in  which  he  lay. 
This  courageous  gentleman  and  hardy  soldier 
was  near  swooning  from  intensity  of  emotion. 

It  was  not  for  long;  in  another  moment  his 
face  was  raised  from  earth,  his  hands  resumed 


22     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

their  places  on  the  rifle,  his  forefinger  sought 
the  trigger;  mind,  heart,  and  eyes  were  clear, 
conscience  and  reason  sound.  He  could  not 
hope  to  capture  that  enemy;  to  alarm  him 
would  but  send  him  dashing  to  his  camp  with 
his  fatal  news.  The  duty  of  the  soldier  was 
plain :  the  man  must  be  shot  dead  from  am- 
bush— without  warning,  without  a  moment's 
spiritual  preparation,  with  never  so  much  as 
an  unspoken  prayer,  he  must  be  sent  to  his 
account.  But  no — there  is  a  hope;  he  may 
have  discovered  nothing — perhaps  he  is  but 
admiring  the  sublimity  of  the  landscape.  If 
permitted,  he  may  turn  and  ride  carelessly 
away  in  the  direction  whence  he  came. 
Surely  it  will  be  possible  to  judge  at  the  in- 
stant of  his  withdrawing  whether  he  knows. 
It  may  well  be  that  his  fixity  of  attention — 
Druse  turned  his  head  and  looked  through  the 
deeps  of  air  downward,  as  from  the  surface 
to  the  bottom  of  a  translucent  sea.  He  saw 
creeping  across  the  green  meadow  a  sinuous 
line  of  figures  of  men  and  horses — some  fool- 
ish commander  was  permitting  the  soldiers  of 
his  escort  to  water  their  beasts  in  the  open,  in 
plain  view  from  a  dozen  summits! 

Druse  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  valley 
and  fixed  them  again  upon  the  group  of  man 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         23 

and  horse  in  the  sky,  and  again  it  was  through1 
the  sights  of  his  rifle.  But  this  time  his  aim 
was  at  the  horse.  In  his  memory,  as  if  they 
were  a  divine  mandate,  rang  the  words  of  his 
father  at  their  parting:  "Whatever  may  oc- 
cur, do  what  you  conceive  to  be  your  duty." 
He  was  calm  now.  His  teeth  were  firmly  but 
not  rigidly  closed ;  his  nerves  were  as  tranquil 
as  a  sjeeping  babe's — not  a  tremor  affected 
any  muscle  of  his  body;  his  breathing,  until 
suspended  in  the  act  of  taking  aim,  was  regu- 
lar and  slow.  Duty  had  conquered ;  the  spirit 
had  said  to  the  body:  "  Peace,  be  still."  He 
fired. 

Ill 

An  officer  of  the  Federal  force,  who  in  a 
spirit  of  adventure  or  in  quest  of  knowledge 
had  left  the  hidden  bivouac  in  the  valley,  and 
with  aimless  feet  had  made  his  way  to  the 
lower  edge  of  a  small  open  space  near  the  foot 
of  the  cliff,  was  considering  what  he  had  to 
gain  by  pushing  his  exploration  further.  At 
a  distance  of  a  quarter-mile  before  him,  but 
apparently  at  a  stone's  throw,  rose  from  its 
fringe  of  pines  the  gigantic  face  of  rock,  tow- 
ering to  so  great  a  height  above  him  that  it 
made  him  giddy  to  look  up  to  where  its  edge 
cut  a  sharp,  rugged  line  against  the  sky.  It 


24     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

presented  a  clean,  vertical  profile  against  a 
background  of  blue  sky  to  a  point  half  the 
way  down,  and  of  distant  hills,  hardly  less 
blue,  thence  to  the  tops  of  the  trees  at  its  base. 
Lifting  his  eyes  to  the  dizzy  altitude  of  its 
summit  the  officer  saw  an  astonishing  sight — a 
man  on  horseback  riding  down  into  the  valley 
through  the  air  I 

Straight  upright  sat  the  rider,  in  military 
fashion,  with  a  firm  seat  in  the  saddle,  a  strong 
clutch  upon  the  rein  to  hold  his  charger  from 
too  impetuous  a  plunge.  From  his  bare  head 
his  long  hair  streamed  upward,  waving  like  a 
plume.  His  hands  were  concealed  in  the 
cloud  of  the  horse's  lifted  mane.  The  ani- 
mal's body  was  as  level  as  if  every  hoof- 
stroke  encountered  the  resistant  earth.  Its 
motions  were  those  of  a  wild  gallop,  but  even 
as  the  officer  looked  they  ceased,  with  all  the 
legs  thrown  sharply  forward  as  in  the  act  of 
alighting  from  a  leap.  But  this  was  a  flight! 

Filled  with  amazement  and  terror  by  this 
apparition  of  a  horseman  in  the  sky — half  be- 
lieving himself  the  chosen  scribe  of  some  new 
Apocalypse,  the  officer  was  overcome  by  the 
intensity  of  his  emotions;  his  legs  failed  him 
and  he  fell.  Almost  at  the  same  instant  he 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          25 

heard  a  crashing  sound  in  the  trees — a  sound 
that  died  without  an  echo — and  all  was  still. 

The  officer  rose  to  his  feet,  trembling. 
The  familiar  sensation  of  an  abraded  shin  re- 
called his  dazed  faculties.  Pulling  himself 
together  he  ran  rapidly  obliquely  away  from 
the  cliff  to  a  point  distant  from  its  foot;  there- 
about he  expected  to  find  his  man ;  and  there- 
about he  naturally  failed.  In  the  fleeting  in- 
stant of  his  vision  his  imagination  had  been 
so  wrought  upon  by  the  apparent  grace  and 
ease  and  intention  of  the  marvelous  perform- 
ance that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  line 
of  march  of  aerial  cavalry  is  directly  down- 
ward, and  that  he  could  find  the  objects  of  his 
search  at  the  very  foot  of  the  cliff.  A  half- 
hour  later  he  returned  to  camp. 

This  officer  was  a  wise  man ;  he  knew  better 
than  to  tell  an  incredible  truth.  He  said 
nothing  of  what  he  had  seen.  But  when  the 
commander  asked  him  if  in  his  scout  he  had 
learned  anything  of  advantage  to  the  expedi- 
tion he  answered: 

"Yes,  sir;  there  is  no  road  leading  down 
into  this  valley  from  the  southward." 

The  commander,  knowing  better,  smiled. 


26      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


IV 

After  firing  his  shot,  Private  Carter  Druse 
reloaded  his  rifle  and  resumed  his  watch. 
Ten  minutes  had  hardly  passed  when  a  Fed- 
eral sergeant  crept  cautiously  to  him  on  hands 
and  knees.  Druse  neither  turned  his  head  nor 
looked  at  him,  but  lay  without  motion  or  sign 
of  recognition. 

"Did  you  fire?"  the  sergeant  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"At  what?" 

"A  horse.  It  was  standing  on  yonder  rock 
— pretty  far  out.  You  see  it  is  no  longer 
there.  It  went  over  the  cliff." 

The  man's  face  was  white,  but  he  showed 
no  other  sign  of  emotion.  Having  answered, 
he  turned  away  his  eyes  and  said  no  more. 
The  sergeant  did  not  understand. 

"  See  here,  Druse,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  "it's  no  use  making  a  mys- 
tery. I  order  you  to  report.  Was  there  any- 
body on  the  horse?" 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"  My  father." 

The  sergeant  rose  to  his  feet  and  walked 
away.  "  Good  God  1 "  he  said. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          27 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  OWL  CREEK 
BRIDGE 


A  MAN  stood  upon  a  railroad  bridge 
in  northern  Alabama,  looking  down 
into  the  swift  water  twenty  feet  be- 
low. The  man's  hands  were  behind 
his  back,  the  wrists  bound  with  a  cord.  A 
rope  closely  encircled  his  neck.  It  was  at- 
tached to  a  stout  cross-timber  above  his  head 
and  the  slack  fell  to  the  level  of  his  knees. 
Some  loose  boards  laid  upon  the  sleepers  sup- 
porting the  metals  of  the  railway  supplied  a 
footing  for  him  and  his  executioners — two 
private  soldiers  of  the  Federal  army,  directed 
by  a  sergeant  who  in  civil  life  may  have  been 
a  deputy  sheriff.  At  a  short  remove  upon  the 
same  temporary  platform  was  an  officer  in  the 
uniform  of  his  rank,  armed.  He  was  a  cap- 
tain. A  sentinel  at  each  end  of  the  bridge 
stood  with  his  rifle  in  the  position  known  as 
"  support,"  that  is  to  say,  vertical  in  front  of 
the  left  shoulder,  the  hammer  resting  on  the 
forearm  thrown  straight  across  the  chest — a 


28     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

formal  and  unnatural  position,  enforcing  an 
erect  carriage  of  the  body.  It  did  not  appear 
to  be  the  duty  of  these  two  men  to  know  what 
was  occurring  at  the  centre  of  the  bridge; 
they  merely  blockaded  the  two  ends  of  the 
foot  planking  that  traversed  it. 

Beyond  one  of  the  sentinels  nobody  was  in 
sight;  the  railroad  ran  straight  away  into  a 
forest  for  a  hundred  yards,  then,  curving,  was 
lost  to  view.  Doubtless  there  was  an  outpost 
farther  along.  The  other  bank  of  the  stream 
was  open  ground — a  gentle  acclivity  topped 
with  a  stockade  of  vertical  tree  trunks,  loop- 
holed  for  rifles,  with  a  single  embrasure 
through  which  protruded  the  muzzle  of  a 
brass  cannon  commanding  the  bridge.  Mid- 
way of  the  slope  between  bridge  and  fort  were 
the  spectators — a  single  company  of  infantry 
in  line,  at  "  parade  rest,"  the  butts  of  the  rifles 
on  the  ground,  the  barrels  inclining  slightly 
backward  against  the  right  shoulder,  the 
hands  crossed  upon  the  stock.  A  lieutenant 
stood  at  the  right  of  the  line,  the  point  of  his 
sword  upon  the  ground,  his  left  hand  resting 
upon  his  right.  Excepting  the  group  of  four 
at  the  centre  of  the  bridge,  not  a  man  moved. 
The  company  faced  the  bridge,  staring  ston- 
ily, motionless.  The  sentinels,  facing  the 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         29 

banks  of  the  stream,  might  have  been  statues 
to  adorn  the  bridge.  The  captain  stood  with 
folded  arms,  silent,  observing  the  work  of  his 
subordinates,  but  making  no  sign.  Death  is 
a  dignitary  who  when  he  comes  announced  is 
to  be  received  with  formal  manifestations  of 
respect,  even  by  those  most  familiar  with  him. 
In  the  code  of  military  etiquette  silence  and 
fixity  are  forms  of  deference. 

The  man  who  was  engaged  in  being  hanged 
was  apparently  about  thirty-five  years  of  age. 
He  was  a  civilian,  if  one  might  judge  from 
his  habit,  which  was  that  of  a  planter.  His 
features  were  good — a  straight  nose,  firm 
mouth,  broad  forehead,  from  which  his  long, 
dark  hair  was  combed  straight  back,  falling 
behind  his  ears  to  the  collar  of  his  well-fitting 
frock-coat.  He  wore  a  mustache  and  pointed 
beard,  but  no  whiskers;  his  eyes  were  large 
and  dark  gray,  and  had  a  kindly  expression 
which  one  would  hardly  have  expected  in  one 
whose  neck  was  in  the  hemp.  Evidently  this 
was  no  vulgar  assassin.  The  liberal  military 
code  makes  provision  for  hanging  many  kinds 
of  persons,  and  gentlemen  are  not  excluded. 

The  preparations  being  complete,  the  two 
private  soldiers  stepped  aside  and  each  drew 
away  the  plank  upon  which  he  had  been 


30      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

standing.  The  sergeant  turned  to  the  captain, 
saluted  and  placed  himself  immediately  be- 
hind that  officer,  who  in  turn  moved  apart  one 
pace.  These  movements  left  the  condemned 
man  and  the  sergeant  standing  on  the  two  ends 
of  the  same  plank,  which  spanned  three  of  the 
cross-ties  of  the  bridge.  The  end  upon  which 
the  civilian  stood  almost, but  not  quite,  reached 
a  fourth.  This  plank  had  been  held  in  place 
by  the  weight  of  the  captain ;  it  was  now  held 
by  that  of  the  sergeant.  At  a  signal  from  the 
former  the  latter  would  step  aside,  the  plank 
would  tilt  and  the  condemned  man  go  down 
between  two  ties.  The  arrangement  com- 
mended itself  to  his  judgment  as  simple  and 
effective.  His  face  had  not  been  covered  nor 
his  eyes  bandaged.  He  looked  a  moment  at 
his  "unsteadfast  footing,"  then  let  his  gaze 
wander  to  the  swirling  water  of  the  stream 
racing  madly  beneath  his  feet.  A  piece  of 
dancing  driftwood  caught  his  attention  and 
his  eyes  followed  it  down  the  current.  How 
slowly  it  appeared  to  move!  What  a  slugg- 
ish stream ! 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  order  to  fix  his  last 
thoughts  upon  his  wife  and  children.  The 
water,  touched  to  gold  by  the  early  sun,  the 
brooding  mists  under  the  banks  at  some  dist- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         31 

ance  down  the  stream,  the  fort,  the  soldiers, 
the  piece  of  drift — all  had  distracted  him. 
And  now  he  became  conscious  of  a  new  dis- 
turbance. Striking  through  the  thought  of 
his  dear  ones  was  a  sound  which  he  could 
neither  ignore  nor  understand,  a  sharp,  dist- 
inct, metallic  percussion  like  the  stroke  of 
a  blacksmith's  hammer  upon  the  anvil;  it  had 
the  same  ringing  quality.  He  wondered 
what  it  was,  and  whether  immeasurably  dis- 
tant or  near  by — it  seemed  both.  Its  recurr- 
ence was  regular,  but  as  slow  as  the  tolling 
of  a  death  knell.  He  awaited  each  stroke  with 
irr.p it: ::.-:;  ?--*  ^  knev,r  not  why — appre- 
hension. The  intervals  of  silence  grew  pro- 
gressively longer;  the  delays  became  madden- 
ing. With  their  greater  infrequency  the 
sounds  increased  in  strength  and  sharpness. 
They  hurt  his  ear  like  the  thrust  of  a  knife; 
he  feared  he  would  shriek.'/  What  he  heard 
was  the  ticking  of  his  watch. 

He  unclosed  his  eyes  and  saw  again  the 
water  below  him.  "  If  I  could  free  my 
hands,"  he  thought,  "  I  might  throw  off  the 
noose  and  spring  into  the  stream.  By  diving 
I  could  evade  the  bullets  and,  swimming 
vigorously,  reach  the  bank,  take  to  the  woods 
and  get  away  home.  My  home,  thank  God, 


32     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

is  as  yet  outside  their  lines;  my  wife  and  little 
ones  are  still  beyond  the  invader's  farthest 
advance." 

As  these  thoughts,  which  have  here  to  be  set 
down  in  words,  were  flashed  into  the  doomed 
man's  brain  rather  than  evolved  from  it  the 
captain  nodded  to  the  sergeant.  The  sergeant 
stepped  aside. 

II 

Peyton  Farquhar  was  a  well-to-do  planter, 
of  an  old  and  highly  respected  Alabama  fam- 
ily. Being  a  slave  owner  and  like  other  slave 
owners  a  politician  he  was  naturally  an  orig- 
inal secessionist  and  ardently  devoted  to  the 
Southern  cause.  Circumstances  of  an  imper- 
ious -nature,  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  relate 
here,  had  prevented  him  from  taking  service 
with  the  gallant  army  that  had  fought  the  dis- 
astrous campaigns  ending  with  the  fall  of 
Corinth,  and  he  chafed  under  the  inglorious 
restraint,  longing  for  the  release  of  his 
energies,  the  larger  life  of  the  soldier,  the  op- 
portunity for  distinction.  That  opportunity, 
he  felt,  would  come,  as  it  comes  to  all  in  war 
time.  Meanwhile  he  did  what  he  could. 
No  service  was  too  humble  for  him  to  per- 
form in  aid  of  the  South,  no  adventure  too 
perilous  for  him  to  undertake  if  consistent 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         33 

with  the  character  of  a  civilian  who  was  at 
heart  a  soldier,  and  who  in  good  faith  and 
without  too  much  qualification  assented  to  at 
least  a  part  of  the  frankly  villainous  dictum 
that  all  is  fair  in  love  and  war. 

One  evening  while  Farquhar  and  his  wife 
were  sitting  on  a  rustic  bench  near  the  en- 
trance to  his  grounds,  a  gray-clad  soldier  rode 
up  to  the  gate  and  asked  for  a  drink  of  water. 
Mrs.  Farquhar  was  only  too  happy  to  serve 
him  with  her  own  white  hands.  While  she 
was  fetching  the  water  her  husband  ap- 
proached the  dusty  horseman  and  inquired 
eagerly  for  news  from  the  front. 

"  The  Yanks  are  -repairing  the  railroads," 
said  the  man,  "  and  are  getting  ready  for  an- 
other advance.  They  have  reached  the  Owl 
Creek  bridge,  put  it  in  order  and  built  a  stock- 
ade on  the  north  bank.  The  commandant  has 
issued  an  order,  which  is  posted  everywhere, 
declaring  that  any  civilian  caught  interfering 
with  the  railroad,  its  bridges,  tunnels  or  trains 
will  be  summarily  hanged.  I  saw  the  order." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  Owl  Creek  bridge?" 
Farquhar  asked. 

"About  thirty  miles." 

" Is  there  no  force  on  this  side  the  creek?" 

"  Only  a  picket  post  half  a  mile  out,  on  the 


34     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

railroad,  and  a  single  sentinel  at  this  end  of 
the  bridge." 

"  Suppose  a  man — a  civilian  and  student  of 
hanging — should  elude  the  picket  post  and 
perhaps  get  the  better  of  the  sentinel,"  said 
Farquhar,  smiling,  "what  could  he  accom- 
plish?" 

The  soldier  reflected.  "I  was  there  a 
month  ago,"  he  replied.  "I  observed  that 
the  flood  of  last  winter  had  lodged  a  great 
quantity  of  driftwood  against  the  wooden  pier 
at  this  end  of  the  bridge.  It  is  now  dry  and 
would  burn  like  tow." 

The  lady  had  now  brought  the  water,  which 
the  soldier  drank.  He  thanked  her  ceremon- 
iously, bowed  to  her  husband  and  rode  away. 
An  hour  later,  after  nightfall,  he  repassed  the 
plantation,  going  northward  in  the  direction 
from  which  he  had  come.  He  was  a  Federal 
scout 

III 

As  Peyton  Farquhar  fell  straight  down- 
ward through  the  bridge  he  lost  consciousness 
and  was  as  one  already  dead.  From  this  state 
he  was  awakened — ages  later,  it  seemed  to  him 
• — by  the  pain  of  a  sharp  pressure  upon  his 
throat,  followed  by  a  sense  of  suffocation. 
Keen,  poignant  agonies  seemed  to  shoot  from 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          35 

his  neck  downward  through  every  fibre  of  his 
body  and  limbs.  These  pains  appeared  to 
flash  along  well-defined  lines  of  ramification 
and  to  beat  with  an  inconceivably  rapid 
periodicity.  They  seemed  like  streams  of 
pulsating  fire  heating  him  to  an  intolerable 
temperature.  As  to  his  head,  he  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  fulness — of 
congestion.  These  sensations  were  unaccom- 
panied by  thought.  The  intellectual  part  of 
his  nature  was  already  effaced ;  he  had  power 
only  to  feel,  and  feeling  was  torment.  He 
was  conscious  of  motion.  Encompassed  in  a 
luminous  clo?id,  of  which  he  was  now  merely 
the  fiery  heart,  without  material  substance,  he 
swung  through  unthinkable  arcs  of  oscillation, 
like  a  vast  pendulum.  Then  all  at  once,  with 
terrible  suddenness,  the  light  about  him  shot 
upward  with  the  noise  of  a  loud  plash;  a 
frightful  roaring  was  in  his  ears,  and  all  was 
cold  and  dark.  The  power  of  thought  was 
restored;  he  knew  that  the  rope  had  broken 
and  he  had  fallen  into  the  stream.  There  was 
no  additional  strangulation;  the  noose  about 
his  neck  wa>  thVsady  suffocating  him  and  kept 
the  water  f.-ees,  his  lungs.  To  Jie  of  hanging 
at  the  bottcaw  t  a  river  1 — the  iaea  seemed  to 
him  ludicrous  He  opened  his  eyes  in  the 


36     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

darkness  and  saw  above  him  a  gleam  of  light, 
but  how  distant,  how  inaccessible!  He  was 
still  sinking,  for  the  light  became  fainter  and 
fainter  until  it  was  a  mere  glimmer.  Then  it 
began  to  grow  and  brighten,  and  he  knew 
that  he  was  rising  toward  the  surface — knew  it 
with  reluctance,  for  he  was  now  very  com- 
fortable. "  To  be  hanged  and  drowned,"  he 
thought,  "  that  is  not  so  bad ;  but  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  shot.  No ;  I  will  not  be  shot ;  that  is  not 
fair." 

He  was  not  conscious  of  an  effort,  but  a 
sharp  pain  in  his  wrist  apprised  him  that  he 
was  trying  to  free  his  hands.  He  gave  the 
struggle  his  attention,  as  an  idler  might  ob- 
serve the  feat  of  a  juggler,  without  interest  in 
the  outcome.  What  splendid  effort! — what 
magnificent,  what  superhuman  strength!  Ah, 
that  was  a  fine  endeavor!  Bravo!  The  cord 
fell  away;  his  arms  parted  and  floated  up- 
ward, the  hands  dimly  seen  on  each  side  in  the 
growing  light.  He  watched  them  with  a  new 
interest  as  first  one  and  then  the  other  pounced 
upon  the  noose  at  his  neck.  They  tore  it  away 
and  thrust  it  fiercely  aside,  itrit  s<dulations  re- 
sembling those  of  a  water ressi^e.  "Put  it 
back,  put  it  back!"  He  t^e  oft  he  shouted 
these  words  to  his  hands,  foTrthe  undoing  of 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          37 

the  noose  had  been  succeeded  by  the  direst 
pang  that  he  had  yet  experienced.  His  neck 
ached  horribly;  his  brain  was  on  fire;  his 
heart,  which  had  been  fluttering  faintly,  gave 
a  great  leap,  trying  to  force  itself  out  at  his 
mouth.  His  whole  body  was  racked  and 
wrenched  with  an  insupportable  anguish! 
But  his  disobedient  hands  gave  no  heed  to  the 
command.  They  beat  the  water  vigorously 
with  quick,  downward  strokes,  forcing  him  to 
the  surface.  He  felt  his  head  emerge;  his 
eyes  were  blinded  by  the  sunlight;  his  chest 
expanded  convulsively,  and  with  a  supreme 
and  crowning  agony  his  lungs  engulfed  a 
great  draught  of  air,  which  instantly  he  ex- 
pelled in  a  shriek! 

He  was  now  in  full  possession  of  his  phys- 
ical senses.  They  were,  indeed,  preternatu- 
rally  keen  and  alert.  Something  in  the  awful 
disturbance  of  his  organic  system  had  so 
exalted  and  refined  them  that  they  made 
record  of  things  never  before  perceived.  He 
felt  the  ripples  upon  his  face  and  heard  their 
separate  sounds  as  they  struck.  He  looked  at 
the  forest  on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  saw  the 
individual  trees,  the  leaves  and  the  veining  of 
each  leaf — saw  the  very  insects  upon  them: 
the  locusts,  the  brilliant-bodied  flies,  the  gray 

49372 


38      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

spiders  stretching  their  webs  from  twig  to 
twig.  He  noted  the  prismatic  colors  in  all  the 
dewdrops  upon  a  million  blades  of  grass. 
The  humming  of  the  gnats  that  danced  above 
the  eddies  of  the  stream,  the  beating  of  the 
dragon-flies*  wings,  the  strokes  of  the  water- 
spiders'  legs,  like  oars  which  had  lifted  their 
boat — all  these  made  audible  music.  A  fish 
slid  along  beneath  his  eyes  and  he  heard  the 
rush  of  its  body  parting  the  water. 

He  had  come  to  the  surface  facing  down 
the  stream;  in  a  moment  the  visible  world 
seemed  to  wheel  slowly  round,  himself  the 
pivotal  point,  and  he  saw  the  bridge,  the  fort, 
the  soldiers  upon  the  bridge,  the  captain,  the 
sergeant,  the  two  privates,  his  executioners. 
They  were  in  silhouette  against  the  blue  sky. 
They  shouted  and  gesticulated,  pointing  at 
him.  The  captain  had  drawn  his  pistol,  but 
did  not  fire;  the  others  were  unarmed.  Their 
movements  were  grotesque  and  horrible,  their 
forms  gigantic. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  sharp  report  and 
something  struck  the  water  smartly  within  a 
few  inches  of  his  head,  spattering  his  face 
with  spray.  He  heard  a  second  report,  and 
saw  one  of  the  sentinels  with  his  rifle  at  his 
shoulder,  a  light  cloud  of  blue  smoke  rising 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          39 

from  the  muzzle.  The  man  in  the  water  saw 
the  eye  of  the  man  on  the  bridge  gazing  into 
his  own  through  the  sights  of  the  rifle.  He 
observed  that  it  was  a  gray  eye  and  remem- 
bered having  read  that  gray  eyes  were  keen- 
est, and  that  all  famous  markmen  had  them. 
Nevertheless,  this  one  had  missed. 

A  counter-swirl  had  caught  Farquhar  and 
turned  him  half  round;  he  was  again  look- 
ing into  the  forest  on  the  bank  opposite  the 
fort.  The  sound  of  a  clear,  high  voice  in  a 
monotonous  singsong  now  rang  out  behind 
him  and  came  across  the  water  with  a  dis- 
tinctness that  pierced  and  subdued  all  other 
sounds,  even  the  beating  of  the  ripples  in  his 
ears.  Although  no  soldier,  he  had  frequented 
camps  enough  to  know  the  dread  significance 
of  that  deliberate,  drawling,  aspirated  chant; 
the  lieutenant  on  shore  was  taking  a  part  in 
the  morning's  work.  How  coldly  and  piti- 
lessly— with  what  an  even,  calm  intonation, 
presaging,  and  enforcing  tranquillity  in  the 
men — with  what  accurately  measured  inter- 
vals fell  those  cruel  words : 

"Attention,  company!  .  .  .  Shoulder  arms! 
.  .  .  Ready!  .  .  .  Aim!  .  .  .  Fire!" 

Farquhar  dived — dived  as  deeply  as  he 
could.  The  water  roared  in  his  ears  like  the 


40     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

voice  of  Niagara,  yet  he  heard  the  dulled 
thunder  of  the  volley  and,  rising  again  toward 
the  surface,  met  shining  bits  of  metal,  singu- 
larly flattened,  oscillating  slowly  downward. 
Some  of  them  touched  him  on  the  face  and 
hands,  then  fell  away,  continuing  their  des- 
cent. One  lodged  between  his  collar  and 
neck;  it  was  uncomfortably  warm  and  he 
snatched  it  out. 

As  he  rose  to  the  surface,  gasping  for 
breath,  he  saw  that  he  had  been  a  long  time 
under  water;  he  was  perceptibly  farther  down 
stream — nearer  to  safety.  The  soldiers  had 
almost  finished  reloading;  the  metal  ramrods 
flashed  all  at  once  in  the  sunshine  as  they  were 
drawn  from  the  barrels,  turned  in  the  air,  and 
thrust  into  their  sockets.  The  two  senti- 
nels fired  again,  independently  and  ineffect- 
ually. 

The  hunted  man  saw  all  this  over  his 
shoulder;  he  was  now  swimming  vigorously 
with  the  current.  His  brain  was  as  energetic 
as  his  arms  and  legs;  he  thought  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning. 

"  The  officer,"  he  reasoned,  "  will  not  make 
that  martinet's  error  a  second  time.  It  is  as 
easy  to  dodge  a  volley  as  a  single  shot.  He 
has  probably  already  given  the  command  to 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         41 

fire  at  will.  God  help  me,  I  cannot  dodge 
them  all!" 

An  appalling  plash  within  two  yards  of 
him  was  followed  by  a  loud,  rushing  sound, 
diminuendo,  which  seemed  to  travel  back 
through  the  air  to  the  fort  and  died  in  an  ex- 
plosion which  stirred  the  very  river  to  its 
deeps!  A  rising  sheet  of  water  curved 
over  him,  fell  down  upon  him,  blinded  him, 
strangled  him!  The  cannon  had  taken  a 
hand  in  the  game.  As  he  shook  his  head  free 
from  the  commotion  of  the  smitten  water  he 
heard  the  deflected  shot  humming  through  the 
air  ahead,  and  in  an  instant  it  was  cracking 
and  smashing  the  branches  in  the  forest  be- 
yond. 

"They  will  not  do  that  again,"  he  thought; 
"  the  next  time  they  will  use  a  charge  of 
grape.  I  must  keep  my  eye  upon  the  gun ;  the 
smoke  will  apprise  me — the  report  arrives  too 
late;  it  lags  behind  the  missile.  That  is  a 
good  gun." 

Suddenly  he  felt  himself  whirled  round  and 
round — spinning  like  a  top.  The  water,  the 
banks,  the  forests,  the  now  distant  bridge,  fort 
and  men — all  were  commingled  and  blurred. 
Objects  were  represented  by  their  colors  only; 
circular  horizontal  streaks  of  color — that  was 


42      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

all  he  saw.  He  had  been  caught  in  a  vortex 
and  was  being  whirled  on  with  a  velocity  of 
advance  and  gyration  that  made  him  giddy 
and  sick.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  flung 
upon  the  gravel  at  the  foot  of  the  left  bank  of 
the  stream — the  southern  bank — and  behind  a 
projecting  point  which  concealed  him  from 
his  enemies.  The  sudden  arrest  of  his  mo- 
tion, the  abrasion  of  one  of  his  hands  on  the 
gravel,  restored  him,  and  he  wept  with  de- 
light. He  dug  his  fingers  into  the  sand, 
threw  it  over  himself  in  handfuls  and  audibly 
blessed  it.  It  looked  like  diamonds,  rubies, 
emeralds;  he  could  think  of  nothing  beautiful 
which  it  did  not  resemble.  The  trees  upon 
the  bank  were  giant  garden  plants ;  he  noted 
a  definite  order  in  their  arrangement,  inhaled 
the  fragrance  of  their  blooms.  A  strange, 
roseate  light  shone  through  the  spaces  among 
their  trunks  and  the  wind  made  in  their 
branches  the  music  of  aeolian  harps.  He  had 
no  wish  to  perfect  his  escape — was  content 
to  remain  in  that  enchanting  spot  until  re- 
taken. 

A  whiz  and  rattle  of  grapeshot  among  the 
branches  high  above  his  head  roused  him 
from  his  dream.  The  baffled  cannoneer  had 
fired  him  a  random  farewell.  He  sprang  to 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE          43 

his  feet,  rushed  up  the  sloping  bank,  and 
plunged  into  the  forest- 
All  that  day  he  traveled,  laying  his  course 
by  the  rounding  sun.  The  forest  seemed  in- 
terminable; nowhere  did  he  discover  a  break 
in  it,  not  even  a  woodman's  road.  He  had 
not  known  that  he  lived  in  so  wild  a  region. 
There  was  something  uncanny  in  the  revela- 
tion. 

By  nightfall  he  was  fatigued,  footsore, 
famishing.  The  thought  of  his  wife  and  child- 
ren urged  him  on.  At  last  he  found  a  road 
which  led  him  in  what  he  knew  to  be  the  right 
direction.  It  was  as  wide  and  straight  as  a 
city  street,  yet  it  seemed  untraveled.  No 
fields  bordered  it,  no  dwelling  anywhere. 
Not  so  much  as  the  barking  of  a  dog  suggested 
human  habitation.  The  black  bodies  of  the 
trees  formed  a  straight  wall  on  both  sides, 
terminating  on  the  horizon  in  a  point,  like  a 
diagram  in  a  lesson  in  perspective.  Over- 
head, as  he  looked  up  through  this  rift  in  the 
wood,  shone  great  golden  stars  looking  un- 
familiar and  grouped  in  strange  constellations. 
He  was  sure  they  were  arranged  in  some 
order  which  had  a  secret  and  malign  signific- 
ance. The  wood  on  either  side  was  full  of 
singular  noises,  among  which — once,  twice, 


44     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

and  again — he  distinctly  heard  whispers  in  an 
unknown  tongue. 

His  neck  was  in  pain  and  lifting  his  hand 
to  it  he  found  it  horribly  swollen.  He  knew 
that  it  had  a  circle  of  black  where  the  rope 
had  bruised  it.  His  eyes  felt  congested;  he 
could  no  longer  close  them.  His  tongue  was 
swollen  with  thirst;  he  relieved  its  fever  by 
thrusting  it  forward  from  between  his  teeth 
into  the  cold  air.  How  softly  the  turf  had 
carpeted  the  untraveled  avenue — he  could  no 
longer  feel  the  roadway  beneath  his  feetl 

Doubtless,  despite  his  suffering,  he  had 
fallen  asleep  while  walking,  for  now  he  sees 
another  scene — perhaps  he  has  merely  recov- 
ered from  a  delirium.  He  stands  at  the  gate 
of  his  own  home.  All  is  as  he  left  it,  and  all 
bright  and  beautiful  in  the  morning  sunshine. 
He  must  have  traveled  the  entire  night.  As 
he  pushes  open  the  gate  and  passes  up  the 
wide  white  walk,  he  sees  a  flutter  of  female 
garments ;  his  wife,  looking  fresh  and  cool  and 
sweet,  steps  down  from  the  veranda  to  meet 
him.  At  the  bottom  of  the  steps  she  stands 
waiting,  with  a  smile  of  ineffable  joy,  an  atti- 
tude of  matchless  grace  and  dignity.  Ah, 
how  beautiful  she  is!  He  springs  forward 
with  extended  arms.  As  he  is  about  to  clasp 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         45 

her  he  feels  a  stunning  blow  upon  the  back  of 
the  neck;  a  blinding  white  light  blazes  all 
about  him  with  a  sound  like  the  shock  of  a 
cannon — then  all  is  darkness  and  silence! 

Peyton  Farquhar  was  dead ;  his  body,  with 
a  broken  neck,  swung  gently  from  side  to  side 
beneath  the  timbers  of  the  Owl  Creek  bridge. 


46      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


CHICKAMAUGA 

OME  sunny  autumn  afternoon  a  child 
strayed  away  from  its  rude  home  in  a 
small  field  and  entered  a  forest  unob- 
served. It  was  happy  in  a  new  sense 
of  freedom  from  control,  happy  in  the  oppor- 
tunity of  exploration  and  adventure;  for  this 
child's  spirit,  in  bodies  of  its  ancestors,  had  for 
thousands  of  years  been  trained  to  memorable 
feats  of  discovery  and  conquest — victories  in 
battles  whose  critical  moments  were  centuries, 
whose  victors'  camps  were  cities  of  hewn  stone. 
From  the  cradle  of  its  race  it  had  conquered 
its  way  through  two  continents  and  passing  a 
great  sea  had  penetrated  a  third,  there  to  be 
born  to  war  and  dominion  as  a  heritage. 

The  child  was  a  boy  aged  about  six  years, 
the  son  of  a  poor  planter.  In  his  younger 
manhood  the  father  had  been  a  soldier,  had 
fought  against  naked  savages  and  followed 
the  flag  of  his  country  into  the  capital  of  a 
civilized  race  to  the  far  South.  In  the  peace- 
ful life  of  a  planter  the  warrior-fire  survived ; 
once  kindled,  it  is  never  extinguished.  The 
man  loved  military  books  and  pictures  and  the 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         47 

boy  had  understood  enough  to  make  himself 
a  wooden  sword,  though  even  the  eye  of  his 
father  would  hardly  have  known  it  for  what  it 
was.  This  weapon  he  now  bore  bravely,  as 
became  the  son  of  an  heroic  race,  and  pausing 
now  and  again  in  the  sunny  space  of  the  forest 
assumed,  with  some  exaggeration,  the  postures 
of  aggression  and  defense  that  he  had  been 
taught  by  the  engraver's  art.  Made  reckless 
by  the  ease  with  which  he  overcame  invisible 
foes  attempting  to  stay  his  advance,  he  com- 
mitted the  common  enough  military  error  of 
pushing  the  pursuit  to  a  dangerous  extreme, 
until  he  found  himself  upon  the  margin  of  a 
wide  but  shallow  brook,  whose  rapid  waters 
barred  his  direct  advance  against  the  flying 
foe  that  had  crossed  with  illogical  ease.  But 
the  intrepid  victor  was  not  to  be  baffled;  the 
spirit  of  the  race  which  had  passed  the  great 
sea  burned  unconquerable  in  that  small  breast 
and  would  not  be  denied.  Finding  a  place 
where  some  bowlders  in  the  bed  of  the  stream 
lay  but  a  step  or  a  leap  apart,  he  made  his  way 
across  and  fell  again  upon  the  rear-guard  of 
his  imaginary  foe,  putting  all  to  the  sword. 

Now  that  the  battle  had  been  won,  pru- 
dence required  that  he  withdraw  to  his  base 
of  operations.  Alas;  like  many  a  mightier 


48     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

conqueror,  and  like  one,  the  mightiest,  he 
could  not 

curb  the  lust  for  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

Advancing  from  the  bank  of  the  creek  he 
suddenly  found  himself  confronted  with  a 
new  and  more  formidable  enemy:  in  the  path 
that  he  was  following,  sat,  bolt  upright,  with 
ears  erect  and  paws  suspended  before  it,  a 
rabbit!  With  a  startled  cry  the  child  turned 
and  fled,  he  knew  not  in  what  direction,  call- 
ing with  inarticulate  cries  for  his  mother, 
weeping,  stumbling,  his  tender  skin  cruelly 
torn  by  brambles,  his  little  heart  beating  hard 
with  terror — breathless,  blind  with  tears — lost 
in  the  forest  I  Then,  for  more  than  an  hour, 
he  wandered  with  erring  feet  through  the 
tangled  undergrowth,  till  at  last,  overcome 
by  fatigue,  he  lay  down  in  a  narrow  space  be- 
tween two  rocks,  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
stream  and  still  grasping  his  toy  sword,  no 
longer  a  weapon  but  a  companion,  sobbed 
himself  to  sleep.  The  wood  birds  sang 
merrily  above  his  head;  the  squirrels,  whisk- 
ing their  bravery  of  tail,  ran  barking  from 
tree  to  tree,  unconscious  of  the  pity  of  it,  and 
somewhere  far  away  was  a  strange,  muffled 
thunder,  as  if  the  partridges  were  drumming 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          49 

in  celebration  of  nature's  victory  over  the  son 
of  her  immemorial  enslavers.  And  back  at 
the  little  plantation,  where  white  men  and 
black  were  hastily  searching  the  fields  and 
hedges  in  alarm,  a  mother's  heart  was  break- 
ing for  her  missing  child. 

Hours  passed,  and  then  the  little  sleeper 
rose  to  his  feet  The  chill  of  the  evening  was 
in  his  limbs,  the  fear  of  the  gloom  in  his  heart. 
But  he  had  rested,  and  he  no  longer  wept. 
With  some  blind  instinct  which  impelled  to 
action  he  struggled  through  the  undergrowth 
about  him  and  came  to  a  more  open  ground — 
on  his  right  the  brook,  to  the  left  a  gentle  ac- 
clivity studded  with  infrequent  trees ;  over  all, 
the  gathering  gloom  of  twilight.  A  thin, 
ghostly  mist  rose  along  the  water.  It  fright- 
ened and  repelled  him;  instead  of  recrossing, 
in  the  direction  whence  he  had  come,  he 
turned  his  back  upon  it,  and  went  forward 
toward  the  dark  inclosing  wood.  Suddenly 
he  saw  before  him  a  strange  moving  object 
which  he  took  to  be  some  large  animal — a 
dog,  a  pig — he  could  not  name  it;  perhaps  it 
was  a  bear.  He  had  seen  pictures  of  bears, 
but  knew  of  nothing  to  their  discredit  and  had 
vaguely  wished  to  meet  one.  But  something 
in  form  or  movement  of  this  object — some- 


50     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

thing  in  the  awkwardness  of  its  approach — 
told  him  that  it  was  not  a  bear,  and  curiosity 
was  stayed  by  fear.  He  stood  still  and  as  it 
came  slowly  on  gained  courage  every  moment, 
for  he  saw  that  at  least  it  had  not  the  long, 
menacing  ears  of  the  rabbit.  Possibly  his  im- 
pressionable mind  was  half  conscious  of  some- 
thing familiar  in  its  shambling,  awkward  gait. 
[Before  it  had  approached  near  enough  to  re- 
solve his  doubts  he  saw  that  it  was  followed 
by  another  and  another.  To  right  and  to  left 
were  many  more;  the  whole  open  space  about 
him  was  alive  with  them — all  moving  toward 
the  brook. 

They  were  men.  They  crept  upon  their 
hands  and  knees.  They  used  their  hands 
only,  dragging  their  legs.  They  used  their 
knees  only,  their  arms  hanging  idle  at 
their  sides.  They  strove  to  rise  to  their 
feet,  but  fell  prone  in  the  attempt.  They 
did  nothing  naturally,  and  nothing  alike, 
save  only  to  advance  foot  by  foot  in  the 
same  direction.  Singly,  in  pairs  and  in  little 
groups,  they  came  on  through  the  gloom,  some 
halting  now  and  again  while  others  crept 
slowly  past  them,  then  resuming  their  move- 
ment. They  came  by  dozens  and  by  hun- 
dreds ;  as  far  on  either  hand  as  one  could  see 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         51 

in  the  deepening  gloom  they  extended  and  the 
black  wood  behind  them  appeared  to  be  in- 
exhaustible. The  very  ground  seemed  in 
motion  toward  the  creek.  Occasionally  one 
who  had  paused  did  not  again  go  on,  but  lay 
motionless.  He  was  dead.  Some,  pausing, 
made  strange  gestures  with  their  hands, 
erected  their  arms  and  lowered  them  again, 
clasped  their  heads;  spread  their  palms  up- 
ward, as  men  are  sometimes  seen  to  do  in  pub- 
lic prayer. 

Not  all  of  this  did  the  child  note;  it  is 
what  would  have  been  noted  by  an  elder  ob- 
server; he  saw  little  but  that  these  were  men, 
yet  crept  like  babes.  Being  men,  they  were 
not  terrible,  though  unfamiliarly  clad.  He 
moved  among  them  freely,  going  from  one  to 
another  and  peering  into  their  faces  with 
childish  curiosity.  All  their  faces  were 
singularly  white  and  many  were  streaked  and 
gouted  with  red.  Something  in  this — some- 
thing too,  perhaps,  in  their  grotesque  attitudes 
and  movements — reminded  him  of  the  painted 
clown  whom  he  had  seen  last  summer  in  the 
circus,  and  he  laughed  as  he  watched  them. 
But  on  and  ever  on  they  crept,  these  maimed 
and  bleeding  men,  as  heedless  as  he  of  the 
dramatic  contrast  between  his  laughter  and 


52     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

their  own  ghastly  gravity.  To  him  it  was  a 
merry  spectacle.  He  had  seen  his  father's  ne- 
groes creep  upon  their  hands  and  knees  for  his 
amusement — had  ridden  them  so,  "making 
believe"  they  were  his  horses.  He  now  ap- 
proached one  of  these  crawling  figures  from 
behind  and  with  an  agile  movement  mounted 
it  astride.  The  man  sank  upon  his  breast,  re- 
covered, flung  the  small  boy  fiercely  to  the 
ground  as  an  unbroken  colt  might  have  done, 
then  turned  upon  him  a  face  that  lacked  a 
lower  jaw — from  the  upper  teeth  to  the  throat 
was  a  great  red  gap  fringed  with  hanging 
shreds  of  flesh  and  splinters  of  bone.  The  un- 
natural prominence  of  nose,  the  absence  of 
chin,  the  fierce  eyes,  gave  this  man  the  appear- 
ance of  a  great  bird  of  prey  crimsoned  in 
throat  and  breast  by  the  blood  of  its  quarry. 
The  man  rose  to  his  knees,  the  child  to  his  feet. 
The  man  shook  his  fist  at  the  child;  the  child, 
terrified  at  last,  ran  to  a  tree  near  by,  got  upon 
the  farther  side  of  it  and  took  a  more  serious 
view  of  the  situation.  And  so  the  clumsy 
multitude  dragged  itself  slowly  and  painfully 
along  in  hideous  pantomime — moved  forward 
down  the  slope  like  a  swarm  of  great  black 
beetles,  with  never  a  sound  of  going — in  si- 
lence profound,  absolute. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         53 

Instead  of  darkening,  the  haunted  land- 
scape began  to  brighten.  Through  the  belt 
of  trees  beyond  the  brook  shone  a  strange  red 
light,  the  trunks  and  branches  of  the  trees 
making  a  black  lacework  against  it.  It  struck 
the  creeping  figures  and  gave  them  monstrous 
shadows,  which  caricatured  their  movements 
on  the  lit  grass.  It  fell  upon  their  faces, 
touching  their  whiteness  with  a  ruddy  tinge, 
accentuating  the  stains  with  which  so  many  of 
them  were  freaked  and  maculated.  It 
sparkled  on  buttons  and  bits  of  metal  in  their 
clothing.  Instinctively  the  child  turned  to- 
ward the  growing  splendor  and  moved  down 
the  slope  with  his  horrible  companions;  in  a 
few  moments  had  passed  the  foremost  of  the 
throng — not  much  of  a  feat,  considering  his 
advantages.  He  placed  himself  in  the  lead, 
his  wooden  sword  still  in  hand,  and  solemnly 
directed  the  march,  conforming  his  pace  to 
theirs  and  occasionally  turning  as  if  to  see  that 
his  forces  did  not  straggle.  Surely  such  a 
leader  never  before  had  such  a  following. 

Scattered  about  upon  the  ground  now 
slowly  narrowing  by  the  encroachment  of  this 
awful  march  to  water,  were  certain  articles  to 
which,  in  the  leader's  mind,  were  coupled  no 
significant  associations:  an  occasional  blanket, 


54     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

tightly  rolled  lengthwise,  doubled  and  the 
ends  bound  together  with  a  string;  a  heavy 
knapsack  here,  and  there  a  broken  rifle — such 
things,  in  short,  as  are  found  in  the  rear  of  re- 
treating troops,  the  "spoor"  of  men  flying 
from  their  hunters.  Everywhere  near  the 
creek,  which  here  had  a  margin  of  lowland, 
the  earth  was  trodden  into  mud  by  the  feet  of 
men  and  horses.  An  observer  of  better  ex- 
perience in  the  use  of  his  eyes  would  have 
noticed  that  these  footprints  pointed  in  both 
directions;  the  ground  had  been  twice  passed 
over — in  advance  and  in  retreat.  A  few  hours 
before,  these  desperate,  stricken  men,  with 
their  more  fortunate  and  now  distant  com- 
rades, had  penetrated  the  forest  in  thousands. 
Their  successive  battalions,  breaking  into 
swarms  and  re-forming  in  lines,  had  passed 
the  child  on  every  side — had  almost  trodden 
on  him  as  he  slept.  The  rustle  and  murmur 
of  their  march  had  not  awakened  him.  Al- 
most within  a  stone's  throw  of  where  he  lay 
they  had  fought  a  battle;  but  all  unheard  by 
him  were  the  roar  of  the  musketry,  the  shock 
of  the  cannon,  "the  thunder  of  the  captains 
and  the  shouting."  He  had  slept  through  it 
all,  grasping  his  little  wooden  sword  with  per- 
haps a  tighter  clutch  in  unconscious  sympathy 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         55 

witH  his  martial  environment,  but  as  heedless 
of  the  grandeur  of  the  struggle  as  the  dead 
who  had  died  to  make  the  glory. 

The  fire  beyond  the  belt  of  woods  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  creek,  reflected  to  earth 
from  the  canopy  of  its  own  smoke,  was  now 
suffusing  the  whole  landscape.  It  trans- 
formed the  sinuous  line  of  mist  to  the  vapor 
of  gold.  The  water  gleamed  with  dashes  of 
red,  and  red,  too,  were  many  of  the  stones 
protruding  above  the  surface.  But  that  was 
blood;  the  less  desperately  wounded  had 
stained  them  in  crossing.  On  them,  too,  the 
child  now  crossed  with  eager  steps;  he  was 
going  to  the  fire.  As  he  stood  upon  the  far- 
ther bank  he  turned  about  to  look  at  the  com- 
panions of  his  march.  The  advance  was  ar- 
riving at  the  creek.  The  stronger  had  al- 
ready drawn  themselves  to  the  brink  and 
plunged  their  faces  into  the  flood.  Three  or 
four  who  lay  without  motion  appeared  to  have 
no  heads.  At  this  the  child's  eyes  expanded 
with  wonder;  even  his  hospitable  understand- 
ing could  not  accept  a  phenomenon  implying 
such  vitality  as  that.  After  slaking  their 
thirst  these  men  had  not  had  the  strength  to 
back  away  from  the  water,  nor  to  keep  their 
heads  above  it.  They  were  drowned.  In 


56     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

rear  of  these,  the  open  spaces  of  the  forest 
showed  the  leader  as  many  formless  figures  of 
his  grim  command  as  at  first;  but  not  nearly 
so  many  were  in  motion.  He  waved  his  cap 
for  their  encouragement  and  smilingly 
pointed  with  his  weapon  in  the  direction  of 
the  guiding  light — a  pillar  of  fire  to  this 
strange  exodus. 

Confident  of  the  fidelity  of  his  forces,  he 
now  entered  the  belt  of  woods,  passed  through 
it  easily  in  the  red  illumination,  climbed  a 
fence,  ran  across  a  field,  turning  now  and 
again  to  coquet  with  his  responsive  shadow, 
and  so  approached  the  blazing  ruin  of  a 
dwelling.  Desolation  everywhere!  In  all 
the  wide  glare  not  a  living  thing  was  visible. 
He  cared  nothing  for  that;  the  spectacle 
pleased,  and  he  danced  with  glee  in  imitation 
of  the  wavering  flames.  He  ran  about,  col- 
lecting fuel,  but  every  object  that  he  found 
was  too  heavy  for  him  to  cast  in  from  the  dis- 
tance to  which  the  heat  limited  his  approach. 
In  despair  he  flung  in  his  sword — a  surrender 
to  the  superior  forces  of  nature.  His  military 
career  was  at  an  end. 

Shifting  his  position,  his  eyes  fell  upon 
some  outbuildings  which  had  an  oddly  fam- 
iliar appearance,  as  if  he  had  dreamed  of 
them.  He  stood  considering  them  with  won- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         57 

der,  when  suddenly  the  entire  plantation,  with 
its  inclosing  forest,  seemed  to  turn  as  if  upon  a 
pivot.  His  little  world  swung  half  around; 
the  points  of  the  compass  were  reversed.  He 
recognized  the  blazing  building  as  his  own 
home! 

For  a  moment  he  stood  stupefied  by  the 
power  of  the  revelation,  then  ran  with  stum- 
bling feet,  making  a  half-circuit  of  the  ruin. 
There,  conspicuous  in  the  light  of  the  con- 
flagration, lay  the  dead  body  of  a  woman — 
the  white  face  turned  upward,  the  hands 
thrown  out  and  clutched  full  of  grass,  the 
clothing  deranged,  the  long  dark  hair  in 
tangles  and  full  of  clotted  blood.  The 
greater  part  of  the  forehead  was  torn  away, 
and  from  the  jagged  hole  the  brain  pro- 
truded, overflowing  the  temple,  a  frothy  mass 
of  gray,  crowned  with  clusters  of  crimson 
bubbles — the  work  of  a  shell. 

The  child  moved  his  little  hands,  making 
wild,  uncertain  gestures.  He  uttered  a  series 
of  inarticulate  and  indescribable  cries — some- 
thing between  the  chattering  of  an  ape  and  the 
gobbling  of  a  turkey — a  startling,  soulless,  un- 
holy sound,  the  language  of  a  devil.  The 
child  was  a  deaf  mute. 

Then  he  stood  motionless,  with  quivering 
lips,  looking  down  upon  the  wreck. 


58     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 
A  SON  OF  THE  GODS 

A  STUDY  IN  THE  PRESENT  TENSE 

A  BREEZY  day  and  a  sunny  land- 
scape. An  open  country  to  right  and 
left  and  forward;  behind,  a  wood. 
In  the  edge  of  this  wood,  facing  the 
open  but  not  venturing  into  it,  long  lines  of 
troops,  halted.  The  wood  is  alive  with  them, 
and  full  of  confused  noises — the  occasional 
rattle  of  wheels  as  a  battery  of  artillery  goes 
into  position  to  cover  the  advance;  the  hum 
and  murmur  of  the  soldiers  talking;  a  sound 
of  innumerable  feet  in  the  dry  leaves  that  strew 
the  interspaces  among  the  trees;  hoarse  com- 
mands of  officers.  Detached  groups  of  horse- 
men are  well  in  front — not  altogether  exposed 
— many  of  them  intently  regarding  the  crest 
of  a  hill  a  mile  away  in  the  direction  of  the  in- 
terrupted advance.  For  this  powerful  army, 
moving  in  battle  order  through  a  forest,  has 
met  with  a  formidable  obstacle — the  open 
country.  The  crest  of  that  gentle  hill  a  mile 
away  has  a  sinister  look;  it  says,  Beware! 
Along  it  runs  a  stone  wall  extending  to  left 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         59 

and  right  a  great  distance.  Behind  the  wall 
is  a  hedge ;  behind  the  hedge  are  seen  the  tops 
of  trees  in  rather  straggling  order.  Among 
the  trees — what?  It  is  necessary  to  know. 

Yesterday,  and  for  many  days  and  nights 
previously,  we  were  fighting  somewhere;  al- 
ways there  was  cannonading,  with  occasional 
keen  rattlings  of  musketry,  mingled  with 
cheers,  our  own  or  the  enemy's,  we  seldom 
knew,  attesting  some  temporary  advantage. 
This  morning  at  daybreak  the  enemy  was 
gone.  We  have  moved  forward  across  his 
earthworks,  across  which  we  have  so  often 
vainly  attempted  to  move  before,  through  the 
debris  of  his  abandoned  camps,  among  the 
graves  of  his  fallen,  into  the  woods  beyond. 

How  curiously  we  had  regarded  every- 
thing! how  odd  it  all  had  seemed!  Nothing 
had  appeared  quite  familiar;  the  most  com- 
monplace objects — an  old  saddle,  a  splintered 
wheel,  a  forgotten  canteen — everything  had 
related  something  of  the  mysterious  person- 
ality of  those  strange  men  who  had  been  kill- 
ing us.  The  soldier  never  becomes  wholly 
familiar  with  the  conception  of  his  foes  as 
men  like  himself;  he  cannot  divest  himself  of 
the  feeling  that  they  are  another  order  of  be- 
ings, differently  conditioned,  in  an  environ- 


60     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ment  not  altogether  of  the  earth.  The  smallest 
vestiges  of  them  rivet  his  attention  and  engage 
his  interest.  He  thinks  of  them  as  inaccess- 
ible; and,  catching  an  unexpected  glimpse  of 
them,  they  appear  farther  away,  and  therefore 
larger,  than  they  really  are — like  objects  in  a 
fog.  He  is  somewhat  in  awe  of  them. 

From  the  edge  of  the  wood  leading  up  the 
acclivity  are  the  tracks  of  horses  and  wheels — 
the  wheels  of  cannon.  The  yellow  grass  is 
beaten  down  by  the  feet  of  infantry.  Clearly 
they  have  passed  this  way  in  thousands ;  they 
have  not  withdrawn  by  the  country  roads. 
This  is  significant — it  is  the  difference  be- 
tween retiring  and  retreating. 

That  group  of  horsemen  is  our  commander, 
his  staff  and  escort.  He  is  facing  the  distant 
crest,  holding  his  field-glass  against  his  eyes 
with  both  hands,  his  elbows  needlessly  elev- 
ated. It  is  a  fashion;  it  seems  to  dignify  the 
act;  we  are  all  addicted  to  it.  Suddenly  he 
lowers  the  glass  and  says  a  few  words  to  those 
about  him.  Two  or  three  aides  detach  them- 
selves from  the  group  and  canter  away  into 
the  woods,  along  the  lines  in  each  direction. 
We  did  not  hear  his  words,  but  we  know 
them :  "  Tell  General  X.  to  send  forward  the 
skirmish  line."  Those  of  us  who  have  been 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE         61 

out  of  place  resume  our  positions;  the  men 
resting  at  ease  straighten  themselves  and  the 
ranks  are  re-formed  without  a  command. 
Some  of  us  staff  officers  dismount  and  look 
at  our  saddle  girths;  those  already  on  the 
ground  remount. 

Galloping  rapidly  along  in  the  edge  of  the 
open  ground  comes  a  young  officer  on  a  snow- 
white  horse.  His  saddle  blanket  is  scarlet. 
What  a  fool !  No  one  who  has  ever  been  in 
action  but  remembers  how  naturally  every 
rifle  turns  toward  the  man  on  a  white  horse; 
no  one  but  has  observed  how  a  bit  of  red  en- 
rages the  bull  of  battle.  That  such  colors  are 
fashionable  in  military  life  must  be  accepted 
as  the  most  astonishing  of  all  the  phenomena 
of  human  vanity.  They  would  seem  to  have 
been  devised  to  increase  the  death-rate. 

This  young  officer  is  in  full  uniform,  as  if 
on  parade.  He  is  all  agleam  with  bullion — a 
blue-and-gold  edition  of  the  Poetry  of  War. 
A  wave  of  derisive  laughter  runs  abreast  of 
him  all  along  the  line.  But  how  handsome  he 
is! — with  what  careless  grace  he  sits  his  horse! 

He  reins  up  within  a  respectful  distance  of 
the  corps  commander  and  salutes.  The  old 
soldier  nods  familiarly;  he  evidently  knows 
him.  A  brief  colloquy  between  them  is  going 


62     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

on;  the  young  man  seems  to  be  preferring 
some  request  which  the  elder  one  is  indisposed 
to  grant.  Let  us  ride  a  little  nearer.  Ah !  too 
late — it  is  ended.  The  young  officer  salutes 
again,  wheels  his  horse,  and  rides  straight  to- 
ward the  crest  of  the  hill! 

A  thin  line  of  skirmishers,  the  men  de- 
ployed at  six  paces  or  so  apart,  now  pushes 
from  the  wood  into  the  open.  The  com- 
mander speaks  to  his  bugler,  who  claps  his 
instrument  to  his  lips.  Tra-la-la!  Tra-la-la! 
The  skirmishers  halt  in  their  tracks. 

Meantime  the  young  horseman  has  ad- 
vanced a  hundred  yards.  He  is  riding  at  a 
walk,  straight  up  the  long  slope,  with  never 
a  turn  of  the  head.  How  glorious!  Gods! 
what  would  we  not  give  to  be  in  his  place — 
with  his  soul!  He  does  not  draw  his  sabre; 
his  right  hand  hangs  easily  at  his  side.  The 
breeze  catches  the  plume  in  his  hat  and  flut- 
ters it  smartly.  The  sunshine  rests  upon  his 
shoulder-straps,  lovingly,  like  a  visible  bene- 
diction. Straight  on  he  rides.  Ten  thousand 
pairs  of  eyes  are  fixed  upon  him  with  an  in- 
tensity that  he  can  hardly  fail  to  feel;  ten 
thousand  hearts  keep  quick  time  to  the  inaud- 
ible hoof-beats  of  his  snowy  steed.  He  is 
not  alone — he  draws  all  souls  after  him.  But 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          63 

we  remember  that  we  laughed!  On  and  on, 
straight  for  the  hedge-lined  wall,  he  rides. 
Not  a  look  backward.  O,  if  he  would  but 
turn — if  he  could  but  see  the  love,  the  adora- 
tion, the  atonement! 

Not  a  word  is  spoken ;  the  populous  depths 
of  the  forest  still  murmur  with  their  unseen 
and  unseeing  swarm,  but  all  along  the  fringe 
is  silence.  The  burly  commander  is  an  eques- 
trian statue  of  himself.  The  mounted  staff 
officers,  their  field  glasses  up,  are  motionless 
all.  The  line  of  battle  in  the  edge  of  the 
wood  stands  at  a  new  kind  of  "  attention,"  each 
man  in  the  attitude  in  which  he  was  caught 
by  the  consciousness  of  what  is  going  on.  All 
these  hardened  and  impenitent  man-killers,  to 
whom  death  in  its  awfulest  forms  is  a  fact 
familiar  to  their  every-day  observation;  who 
sleep  on  hills  trembling  with  the  thunder  of 
great  guns,  dine  in  the  midst  of  streaming 
missiles,  and  play  at  cards  among  the  dead 
faces  of  their  dearest  friends — all  are  watch- 
ing with  suspended  breath  and  beating  hearts 
the  outcome  of  an  act  involving  the  life  of  one 
man.  Such  is  the  magnetism  of  courage  and 
devotion. 

If  now  you  should  turn  your  head  you 
would  see  a  simultaneous  movement  among 


64,     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  spectators — a  start,  as  if  they  had  received 
an  electric  shock — and  looking  forward  again 
to  the  now  distant  horseman  you  would  see 
that  he  has  in  that  instant  altered  his  direction 
and  is  riding  at  an  angle  to  his  former  course. 
The  spectators  suppose  the  sudden  deflection 
to  be  caused  by  a  shot,  perhaps  a  wound;  but 
take  this  field-glass  and  you  will  observe  that 
he  is  riding  toward  a  break  in  the  wall  and 
hedge.  He  means,  if  not  killed,  to  ride 
through  and  overlook  the  country  beyond. 

You  are  not  to  forget  the  nature  of  this 
man's  act;  it  is  not  permitted  to  you  to  think 
of  it  as  an  instance  of  bravado,  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  needless  sacrifice  of  self.  If  the 
enemy  has  not  retreated  he  is  in  force  on  that 
ridge.  The  investigator  will  encounter  nothing 
less  than  a  line-of-battle ;  there  is  no  need 
of  pickets,  videttes,  skirmishers,  to  give  warn- 
ing of  our  approach;  our  attacking  lines  will 
be  visible,  conspicuous,  exposed  to  an  artillery 
fire  that  will  shave  the  ground  the  moment 
they  break  from  cover,  and  for  half  the  dis- 
tance to  a  sheet  of  rifle  bullets  in  which  no- 
thing can  live.  In  short,  if  the  enemy  is  there, 
it  would  be  madness  to  attack  him  in  front;  he 
must  be  manoeuvred  out  by  the  immemorial 
plan  of  threatening  his  line  of  communication, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE          65 

as  necessary  to  his  existence  as  to  the  diver  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  his  air  tube. .  But  how 
ascertain  if  the  enemy  is  there?  There  is  but 
one  way, — somebody  must  go  and  see.  The 
natural  and  customary  thing  to  do  is  to  send 
forward  a  line  of  skirmishers.  But  in  this 
case  they  will  answer  in  the  affirmative  with 
all  their  lives ;  the  enemy,  crouching  in  double 
ranks  behind  the  stone  wall  and  in  cover  of. 
the  hedge,  will  wait  until  it  is  possible  to  count 
each  assailant's  teeth.  At  the  first  volley  a 
half  of  the  questioning  line  will  fall,  the  other 
half  before  it  can  accomplish  the  predestined 
retreat.  What  a  price  to  pay  for  gratified 
curiosity!  At  what  a  dear  rate  an  army  must 
sometimes  purchase  knowledge!  "Let  me 
pay  all,"  says  this  gallant  man — this  military 
Christ! 

There  is  no  hope  except  the  hope  against 
hope  that  the  crest  is  clear.  True,  he  might 
prefer  capture  to  death.  So  long  as  he  ad- 
vances, the  line  will  not  fire — why  should  it? 
He  can  safely  ride  into  the  hostile  ranks  and 
become  a  prisoner  of  war.  But  this  would 
defeat  his  object.  It  would  not  answer  our 
question;  it  is  necessary  either  that  he  return 
unharmed  or  be  shot  to  death  before  our  eyes. 
Only  so  shall  we  know  how  to  act.  If  cap- 


66     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

tured — why,  that  might  have  been  done  by  a 
half-dozen  stragglers. 

Now  begins  an  extraordinary  contest  of  in- 
tellect between  a  man  and  an  army.  Our 
horseman,  now  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
the  crest,  suddenly  wheels  to  the  left  and  gal- 
lops in  a  direction  parallel  to  it.  He  has 
caught  sight  of  his  antagonist;  he  knows  all. 
Some  slight  advantage  of  ground  has  enabled 
him  to  overlook  a  part  of  the  line.  If  he  were 
here  he  could  tell  us  in  words.  But  that  is 
now  hopeless;  he  must  make  the  best  use  of 
the  few  minutes  of  life  remaining  to  him,  by 
compelling  the  enemy  himself  to  tell  us  as 
much  and  as  plainly  as  possible — which,  nat- 
urally, that  discreet  power  is  reluctant  to  do. 
Not  a  rifleman  in  those  crouching  ranks,  not 
a  cannoneer  at  those  masked  and  shotted  guns, 
but  knows  the  needs  of  the  situation,  the  im- 
perative duty  of  forbearance.  Besides,  there 
has  been  time  enough  to  forbid  them  all  to 
fire.  True,  a  single  rifle-shot  might  drop  him 
and  be  no  great  disclosure.  But  firing  is  in- 
fectious— and  see  how  rapidly  he  moves,  with 
never  a  pause  except  as  he  whirls  his  horse 
about  to  take  a  new  direction,  never  directly 
backward  toward  us,  never  directly  forward 
toward  his  executioners.  All  this  is  visible 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE         67 

through  the  glass;  it  seems  occurring  within 
pistol-shot;  we  see  all  but  the  enemy,  whose 
presence,  whose  thoughts,  whose  motives  we 
infer.  To  the  unaided  eye  there  is  nothing 
but  a  black  figure  on  a  white  horse,  tracing 
slow  zigzags  against  the  slope  of  a  distant  hill 
— so  slowly  they  seem  almost  to  creep. 

Now — the  glass  again — he  has  tired  of  his 
failure,  or  sees  his  error,  or  has  gone  mad; 
he  is  dashing  directly  forward  at  the  wall,  as 
if  to  take  it  at  a  leap,  hedge  and  all!  One 
moment  only  and  he  wheels  right  about  and 
is  speeding  like  the  wind  straight  down  the 
slope — toward  his  friends,  toward  his  death! 
Instantly  the  wall  is  topped  with  a  fierce  roll 
of  smoke  for  a  distance  of  hundreds  of  yards 
to  right  and  left.  This  is  as  instantly  dissip- 
ated by  the  wind,  and  before  the  rattle  of 
the  rifles  reaches  us  he  is  down.  No,  he  re- 
covers his  seat;  he  has  but  pulled  his  horse 
upon  its  haunches.  They  are  up  and  away! 
A  tremendous  cheer  bursts  from  our  ranks, 
relieving  the  insupportable  tension  of  our  feel- 
ings. And  the  horse  and  its  rider?  Yes, 
they  are  up  and  away.  Away,  indeed — they 
are  making  directly  to  our  left,  parallel  to 
the  now  steadily  blazing  and  smoking  wall. 
The  rattle  of  the  musketry  is  continuous,  and 


68     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

every  bullet's  target  is  that  courageous 
heart. 

Suddenly  a  great  bank  of  white  smoke 
pushes  upward  from  behind  the  wall.  An- 
other and  another — a  dozen  roll  up  before 
the  thunder  of  the  explosions  and  the  humm- 
ing of  the  missiles  reach  our  ears  and  the 
missiles  themselves  come  bounding  through 
clouds  of  dust  into  our  covert,  knocking  over 
here  and  there  a  man  and  causing  a  temporary 
distraction,  a  passing  thought  of  self. 

The  dust  drifts  away.  Incredible! — that 
enchanted  horse  and  rider  have  passed  a 
ravine  and  are  climbing  another  slope  to  un- 
veil another  conspiracy  of  silence,  to  thwart 
the  will  of  another  armed  host.  Another  mo- 
ment and  that  crest  too  is  in  eruption.  The 
horse  rears  and  strikes  the  air  with  its  fore- 
feet. They  are  down  at  last.  But  look  again 
— the  man  has  detached  himself  from  the 
dead  animal.  He  stands  erect,  motionless, 
holding  his  sabre  in  his  right  hand  straight 
above  his  head.  His  face  is  toward  us.  Now 
he  lowers  his  hand  to  a  level  with  his  face 
and  moves  it  outward,  the  blade  of  the  sabre 
describing  a  downward  curve.  It  is  a  sign  to 
us,  to  the  world,  to  posterity.  It  is  a  hero's 
salute  to  death  and  history. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         69 

Again  the  spell  is  broken;  our  men  attempt 
to  cheer;  they  are  choking  with  emotion;  they 
utter  hoarse,  discordant  cries;  they  clutch 
their  weapons  and  press  tumultuously  forward 
into  the  open.  The  skirmishers,  without  or- 
ders, against  orders,  are  going  forward  at  a 
keen  run,  like  hounds  unleashed.  Our  cannon 
speak  and  the  enemy's  now  open  in  full 
chorus;  to  right  and  left  as  far  as  we  can  see, 
the  distant  crest,  seeming  now  so  near,  erects 
its  towers  of  cloud  and  the  great  shot  pitch 
roaring  down  among  our  moving  masses. 
Flag  after  flag  of  ours  emerges  from  the 
wood,  line  after  line  sweeps  forth,  catching 
the  sunlight  on  its  burnished  arms.  The  rear 
battalions  alone  are  in  obedience;  they  pre- 
serve their  proper  distance  from  the  insurgent 
front. 

The  commander  has  not  moved.  He  now 
removes  his  field-glass  from  his  eyes  and 
glances  to  the  right  and  left.  He  sees  the 
human  current  flowing  on  either  side  of  him 
and  his  huddled  escort,  like  tide  waves  parted 
by  a  rock.  Not  a  sign  of  feeling  in  his  face; 
he  is  thinking.  Again  he  directs  his  eyes  for- 
ward; they  slowly  traverse  that  malign  and 
awful  crest.  He  addresses  a  calm  word  to  his 
bugler.  Tra-la-la!  Tra-la-la!  The  injunc- 


70     THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

tion  has  an  imperiousness  which  enforces  it. 
It  is  repeated  by  all  the  bugles  of  all  the  sub- 
ordinate commanders;  the  sharp  metallic 
notes  assert  themselves  above  the  hum  of  the 
advance  and  penetrate  the  sound  of  the 
cannon.  To  halt  is  to  withdraw.  The  colors 
move  slowly  back;  the  lines  face  about  and 
sullenly  follow,  bearing  their  wounded;  the 
skirmishers  return,  gathering  up  the  dead. 

Ah,  those  many,  many  needless  dead!  That 
great  soul  whose  beautiful  body  is  lying  over 
yonder,  so  conspicuous  against  the  sere  hill- 
side— could  it  not  have  been  spared  the  bitter 
consciousness  of  a  vain  devotion?  Would  one 
exception  have  marred  too  much  the  pitiless 
perfection  of  the  divine,  eternal  plan? 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          71 


ONE  OF  THE  MISSING 

JEROME  SEARING,  a  private  soldier 
of  General  Sherman's  army,  then  con- 
fronting the  enemy  at  and  about  Kenne- 
saw  Mountain,  Georgia,  turned  his  back 
upon  a  small  group  of  officers  with  whom  he 
had  been  talking  in  low  tones,  stepped  across 
a  light  line  of  earthworks,  and  disappeared  in 
a  forest.  None  of  the  men  in  line  behind  the 
works  had  said  a  word  to  him,  nor  had  he  so 
much  as  nodded  to  them  in  passing,  but  all 
who  saw  understood  that  this  brave  man  had 
been  intrusted  with  some  perilous  duty. 
Jerome  Searing,  though  a  private,  did  not 
serve  in  the  ranks ;  he  was  detailed  for  service 
at  division  headquarters,  being  borne  upon  the 
rolls  as  an  orderly.  "Orderly"  is  a  word 
covering  a  multitude  of  duties.  An  orderly 
may  be  a  messenger,  a  clerk,  an  officer's  serv- 
ant— anything.  He  may  perform  services  for 
which  no  provision  is  made  in  orders  and 
army  regulations.  Their  nature  may  depend 
upon  his  aptitude,  upon  favor,  upon  accident. 
Private  Searing,  an  incomparable  marksman, 
young,  hardy,  intelligent  and  insensible  to 


72     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

fear,  was  a  scout.  The  general  commanding 
his  division  was  not  content  to  obey  orders 
blindly  without  knowing  what  was  in  his 
front,  even  when  his  command  was  not  on  de- 
tached service,  but  formed  a  fraction  of  the 
line  of  the  army;  nor  was  he  satisfied  to  re- 
ceive his  knowledge  of  his  vis-a-vis  through 
the  customary  channels;  he  wanted  to  know 
more  than  he  was  apprised  of  by  the  corps 
commander  and  the  collisions  of  pickets  and 
skirmishers.  Hence  Jerome  Searing,  with  his 
extraordinary  daring,  his  woodcraft,  his  sharp 
eyes,  and  truthful  tongue.  On  this  occasion 
his  instructions  were  simple :  to  get  as  near  the 
enemy's  lines  as  possible  and  learn  all  that  he 
could. 

In  a  few  moments  he  had  arrived  at  the 
picket-line,  the  men  on  duty  there  lying  in 
groups  of  two  and  four  behind  little  banks  of 
earth  scooped  out  of  the  slight  depression  in 
which  they  lay,  their  rifles  protruding  from 
the  green  boughs  with  which  they  had  masked 
their  small  defenses.  The  forest  extended 
without  a  break  toward  the  front,  so  solemn 
and  silent  that  only  by  an  effort  of  the  im- 
agination could  it  be  conceived  as  populous 
with  armed  men,  alert  and  vigilant — a  forest 
formidable  with  possibilities  of  battle.  Paus- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          73 

ing  a  moment  in  one  of  these  rifle-pits  to  ap- 
prise the  men  of  his  intention  Searing  crept 
stealthily  forward  on  his  hands  and  knees  and 
was  soon  lost  to  view  in  a  dense  thicket  of  un- 
derbrush. 

"  That  is  the  last  of  him,"  said  one  of  the 
men;  "  I  wish  I  had  his  rifle;  those  fellows 
will  hurt  some  of  us  with  it." 

Searing  crept  on,  taking  advantage  of  every 
accident  of  ground  and  growth  to  give  him- 
self better  cover.  His  eyes  penetrated  every- 
where, his  ears  took  note  of  every  sound.  He 
stilled  his  breathing,  and  at  the  cracking  of  a 
twig  beneath  his  knee  stopped  his  progress 
and  hugged  the  earth.  It  was  slow  work,  but 
not  tedious;  the  danger  made  it  exciting,  but 
by  no  physical  signs  was  the  excitement  mani- 
fest. His  pulse  was  as  regular,  his  nerves 
were  as  steady  as  if  he  were  trying  to  trap  a 
sparrow. 

"  It  seems  a  long  time,"  he  thought,  "  but 
I  cannot  have  come  very  far;  I  am  still  alive." 

He  smiled  at  his  own  method  of  estimating 
distance,  and  crept  forward.  A  moment  later 
he  suddenly  flattened  himself  upon  the  earth 
and  lay  motionless,  minute  after  minute. 
Through  a  narrow  opening  in  the  bushes  he 
had  caught  sight  of  a  small  mound  of  yellow 


74     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

clay — one  of  the  enemy's  rifle-pits.  After 
some  little  time  he  cautiously  raised  his  head, 
inch  by  inch,  then  his  body  upon  his  hands, 
spread  out  on  each  side  of  him,  all  the  while 
intently  regarding  the  hillock  of  clay.  In  an- 
other moment  he  was  upon  his  feet,  rifle  in 
hand,  striding  rapidly  forward  with  little  at- 
tempt at  concealment.  He  had  rightly  in- 
terpreted the  signs,  whatever  they  were;  the 
enemy  was  gone. 

To  assure  himself  beyond  a  doubt  before 
going  back  to  report  upon  so  important  a  mat- 
ter, Searing  pushed  forward  across  the  line  of 
abandoned  pits,  running  from  cover  to  cover 
in  the  more  open  forest,  his  eyes  vigilant  to 
discover  possible  stragglers.  He  came  to  the 
edge  of  a  plantation — one  of  those  forlorn, 
deserted  homesteads  of  the  last  years  of  the 
war,  upgrown  with  brambles,  ugly  with 
broken  fences  and  desolate  with  vacant  build- 
ings having  blank  apertures  in  place  of  doors 
and  windows.  After  a  keen  reconnoissance 
from  the  safe  seclusion  of  a  clump  of  young 
pines  Searing  ran  lightly  across  a  field  and 
through  an  orchard  to  a  small  structure  which 
stood  apart  from  the  other  farm  buildings,  on 
a  slight  elevation.  This  he  thought  would 
enable  him  to  overlook  a  large  scope  of 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         75 

country  in  the  direction  that  he  supposed  the 
enemy  to  have  taken  in  withdrawing.  This 
building,  which  had  originally  consisted  of  a 
single  room  elevated  upon  four  posts  about 
ten  feet  high,  was  now  little  more  than  a  roof; 
the  floor  had  fallen  away,  the  joists  and  planks 
loosely  piled  on  the  ground  below  or  resting 
on  end  at  various  angles,  not  wholly  torn  from 
their  fastenings  above.  The  supporting  posts 
were  themselves  no  longer  vertical.  It  looked 
as  if  the  whole  edifice  would  go  down  at  the 
touch  of  a  finger. 

Concealing  himself  in  the  debris  of  joists 
and  flooring  Searing  looked  across  the  open 
ground  between  his  point  of  view  and  a  spur 
of  Kennesaw  Mountain,  a  half-mile  away.  A 
road  leading  up  and  across  this  spur  was 
crowded  with  troops — the  rear-guard  of  the 
retiring  enemy,  their  gun-barrels  gleaming  in 
the  morning  sunlight. 

Searing  had  now  learned  all  that  he  could 
hope  to  know.  It  was  his  duty  to  return  to 
his  own  command  with  all  possible  speed  and 
report  his  discovery.  But  the  gray  column  of 
Confederates  toiling  up  the  mountain  road 
was  singularly  tempting.  His  rifle — an  ordin- 
ary "  Springfield,"  but  fitted  with  a  globe 
sight  and  hair-trigger — would  easily  send  its 


76     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ounce  and  a  quarter  of  lead  hissing  into  their 
midst.  That  would  probably  not  affect  the 
duration  and  result  of  the  war,  but  it  is  the 
business  of  a  soldier  to  kill.  It  is  also  his 
habit  if  he  is  a  good  soldier.  Searing  cocked 
his  rifle  and  "  set "  the  trigger. 

But  it  was  decreed  from  the  beginning  of 
time  that  Private  Searing  was  not  to  murder 
anybody  that  bright  summer  morning,  nor 
was  the  Confederate  retreat  to  be  announced 
by  him.  For  countless  ages  events  had  been 
so  matching  themselves  together  in  that  won- 
drous mosaic  to  some  parts  of  which,  dimly 
discernible,  we  give  the  name  of  history,  that 
the  acts  which  he  had  in  will  would  have 
marred  the  harmony  of  the  pattern.  Some 
twenty-five  years  previously  the  Power 
charged  with  the  execution  of  the  work  ac- 
cording to  the  design  had  provided  against 
that  mischance  by  causing  the  birth  of  a  cer- 
tain male  child  in  a  little  village  at  the  foot 
of  the  Carpathian  Mountains,  had  carefully 
reared  it,  supervised  its  education,  directed  its 
desires  into  a  military  channel,  and  in  due 
time  made  it  an  officer  of  artillery.  By  the 
concurrence  of  an  infinite  number  of  favoring 
influences  and  their  preponderance  over  an 
infinite  number  of  opposing  ones,  this  officer 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         77 

of  artillery  had  been  made  to  commit  a  breach 
of  discipline  and  flee  from  his  native  country 
to  avoid  punishment.  He  had  been  directed 
to  New  Orleans  (instead  of  New  York), 
where  a  recruiting  officer  awaited  him  on  the 
wharf.  He  was  enlisted  and  promoted,  and 
things  were  so  ordered  that  he  now  com- 
manded a  Confederate  battery  some  two  miles 
along  the  line  from  where  Jerome  Searing,  the 
Federal  scout,  stood  cocking  his  rifle.  No- 
thing had  been  neglected — at  every  step  in  the 
progress  of  both  these  men's  lives,  and  in  the 
lives  of  their  contemporaries  and  ancestors, 
and  in  the  lives  of  the  contemporaries  of  their 
ancestors,  the  right  thing  had  been  done  to 
bring  about  the  desired  result.  Had  anything 
in  all  this  vast  concatenation  been  overlooked 
Private  Searing  might  have  fired  on  the 
retreating  Confederates  that  morning,  and 
would  perhaps  have  missed.  As  it  fell  out,  a 
Confederate  captain  of  artillery,  having  no- 
thing better  to  do  while  awaiting  his  turn  to 
pull  out  and  be  off,  amused  himself  by  sight- 
ing a  field-piece  obliquely  to  his  right  at  what 
he  mistook  for  some  Federal  officers  on  the 
crest  of  a  hill,  and  discharged  it.  The  shot 
flew  high  of  its  mark. 

As  Jerome  Searing  drew  back  the  hammer 


78     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

of  his  rifle  and  with  his  eyes  upon  the  distant 
Confederates  considered  where  he  could  plant 
his  shot  with  the  best  hope  of  making  a  widow 
or  an  orphan  or  a  childless  mother, — perhaps 
all  three,  for  Private  Searing,  although  he 
had  repeatedly  refused  promotion,  was  not 
without  a  certain  kind  of  ambition, — he  heard 
a  rushing  sound  in  the  air,  like  that  made  by 
the  wings  of  a  great  bird  swooping  down  upon 
its  prey.  More  quickly  than  he  could  appre- 
hend the  gradation,  it  increased  to  a  hoarse 
and  horrible  roar,  as  the  missile  that  made  it 
sprang  at  him  out  of  the  sky,  striking  with  a 
deafening  impact  one  of  the  posts  supporting 
the  confusion  of  timbers  above  him,  smash- 
ing it  into  matchwood,  and  bringing  down  the 
crazy  edifice  with  a  loud  clatter,  in  clouds  of 
blinding  dust! 

When  Jerome  Searing  recovered  conscious- 
ness he  did  not  at  once  understand  what  had 
occurred.  It  was,  indeed,  some  time  before 
he  opened  his  eyes.  For  a  while  he  believed 
that  he  had  died  and  been  buried,  and  he  tried 
to  recall  some  portions  of  the  burial  service. 
He  thought  that  his  wife  was  kneeling  upon 
his  grave,  adding  her  weight  to  that  of  the 
earth  upon  his  breast.  The  two  of  them, 
widow  and  earth,  had  crushed  his  coffin.  Un- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         79 

less  the  children  should  persuade  her  to  go 
home  he  would  not  much  longer  be  able  to 
breathe.  He  felt  a  sense  of  wrong.  "  I  cannot 
speak  to  her,"  he  thought;  "  the  dead  have  no 
voice ;  and  if  I  open  my  eyes  I  shall  get  them 
full  of  earth." 

He  opened  his  eyes.  A  great  expanse  of 
blue  sky,  rising  from  a  fringe  of  the  tops  of 
trees.  In  the  foreground,  shutting  out  some 
of  the  trees,  a  high,  dun  mound,  angular  in 
outline  and  crossed  by  an  intricate,  pattern- 
less  system  of  straight  lines ;  the  whole  an  im- 
measurable distance  away — a  distance  so  in- 
conceivably great  that  it  fatigued  him,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes.  The  moment  that  he  did  so  he 
was  conscious  of  an  insufferable  light.  A 
sound  was  in  his  ears  like  the  low,  rhythmic 
thunder  of  a  distant  sea  breaking  in  successive 
waves  upon  the  beach,  and  out  of  this  noise, 
seeming  a  part  of  it,  or  possibly  coming  from 
beyond  it,  and  intermingled  with  its  cease- 
less undertone,  came  the  articulate  words: 
"  Jerome  Searing,  you  are  caught  like  a  rat  in 
a  trap — in  a  trap,  trap,  trap." 

Suddenly  there  fell  a  great  silence,  a  black 
darkness,  an  infinite  tranquillity,  and  Jerome 
Searing,  perfectly  conscious  of  his  rathood, 
and  well  assured  of  the  trap  that  he  was  in, 


80     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

remembering  all  and  nowise  alarmed,  again 
opened  his  eyes  to  reconnoitre,  to  note  the 
strength  of  his  enemy,  to  plan  his  defense. 

He  was  caught  in  a  reclining  posture,  his 
back  firmly  supported  by  a  solid  beam.  An- 
other lay  across  his  breast,  but  he  had  been 
able  to  shrink  a  little  away  from  it  so  that  it 
no  longer  oppressed  him,  though  it  was  im- 
movable. A  brace  joining  it  at  an  angle  had 
wedged  him  against  a  pile  of  boards  on  his 
left,  fastening  the  arm  on  that  side.  His  legs, 
slightly  parted  and  straight  along  the  ground, 
were  covered  upward  to  the  knees  with  a  mass 
of  debris  which  towered  above  his  narrow 
horizon.  His  head  was  as  rigidly  fixed  as  in 
a  vise;  he  could  move  his  eyes,  his  chin — no 
more.  Only  his  right  arm  was  partly  free. 
"  You  must  help  us  out  of  this,"  he  said  to  it. 
But  he  could  not  get  it  from  under  the  heavy 
timber  athwart  his  chest,  nor  move  it  outward 
more  than  six  inches  at  the  elbow. 

Searing  was  not  seriously  injured,  nor  did 
he  suffer  pain.  A  smart  rap  on  the  head 
from  a  flying  fragment  of  the  splintered  post, 
incurred  simultaneously  with  the  frightfully 
sudden  shock  to  the  nervous  system,  had 
momentarily  dazed  him.  His  term  of  un- 
consciousness, including  the  period  of  recov- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         81 

cry,  during  which  he  had  had  the  strange 
fancies,  had  probably  not  exceeded  a  few  sec- 
onds, for  the  dust  of  the  wreck  had  not  wholly 
cleared  away  as  he  began  an  intelligent  survey 
of  the  situation. 

With  his  partly  free  right  hand  he  now 
tried  to  get  hold  of  the  beam  that  lay  across, 
but  not  quite  against,  his  breast.  In  no  way 
could  he  do  so.  He  was  unable  to  depress  the 
shoulder  so  as  to  push  the  elbow  beyond  that 
edge  of  the  timber  which  was  nearest  his 
knees;  failing  in  that,  he  could  not  raise  the 
forearm  and  hand  to  grasp  the  beam.  The 
brace  that  made  an  angle  with  it  downward 
and  backward  prevented  him  from  doing  any- 
thing in  that  direction,  and  between  it  and  his 
body  the  space  was  not  half  so  wide  as  the 
length  of  his  forearm.  Obviously  he  could 
not  get  his  hand  under  the  beam  nor  over  it; 
the  hand  could  not,  in  fact,  touch  it  at  all. 
Having  demonstrated  his  inability,  he  de- 
sisted, and  began  to  think  whether  he  could 
reach  any  of  the  debris  piled  upon  his  legs. 

In  surveying  the  mass  with  a  view  to  de- 
termining that  point,  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  what  seemed  to  be  a  ring  of  shining 
metal  immediately  in  front  of  his  eyes.  It 
appeared  to  him  at  first  to  surround  some 


82      THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

perfectly  black  substance,  and  it  was  some- 
what more  than  a  half-inch  in  diameter.  It 
suddenly  occurred  to  his  mind  that  the  black- 
ness was  simply  shadow  and  that  the  ring  was 
in  fact  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle  protruding  from 
the  pile  of  debris.  He  was  not  long  in  satisfy- 
ing himself  that  this  was  so — if  it  was  a  satis- 
faction. By  closing  either  eye  he  could  look 
a  little  way  along  the  barrel — to  the  point 
where  it  was  hidden  by  the  rubbish  that  held 
it.  He  could  see  the  one  side,  with  the  corre- 
sponding eye,  at  apparently  the  same  angle  as 
the  other  side  with  the  other  eye.  Looking 
with  the  right  eye,  the  weapon  seemed  to  be 
directed  at  a  point  to  the  left  of  his  head,  and 
vice  versa.  He  was  unable  to  see  the  upper 
surface  of  the  barrel,  but  could  see  the  under 
surface  of  the  stock  at  a  slight  angle.  The 
piece  was,  in  fact,  aimed  at  the  exact  centre  of 
his  forehead. 

In  the  perception  of  this  circumstance,  in 
the  recollection  that  just  previously  to  the 
mischance  of  which  this  uncomfortable  situ- 
ation was  the  result  he  had  cocked  the  rifle 
and  set  the  trigger  so  that  a  touch  would  dis- 
charge it,  Private  Searing  was  affected  with  a 
feeling  of  uneasiness.  But  that  was  as  far  as 
possible  from  fear;  he  was  a  brave  man,  some- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          83 

what  familiar  with  the  aspect  of  rifles  from 
that  point  of  view,  and  of  cannon  too.  And 
now  he  recalled,  with  something  like  amuse- 
ment, an  incident  of  his  experience  at  the 
storming  of  Missionary  Ridge,  where,  walk- 
ing up  to  one  of  the  enemy's  embrasures  from 
which  he  had  seen  a  heavy  gun  throw  charge 
after  charge  of  grape  among  the  assailants  he 
had  thought  for  a  moment  that  the  piece  had 
been  withdrawn;  he  could  see  nothing  in  the 
opening  but  a  brazen  circle.  What  that  was 
he  had  understood  just  in  time  to  step  aside  as 
it  pitched  another  peck  of  iron  down  that 
swarming  slope.  To  face  firearms  is  one  of 
the  commonest  incidents  in  a  soldier's  life — 
firearms,  too,  with  malevolent  eyes  blazing  be- 
hind them.  That  is  what  a  soldier  is  for. 
Still,  Private  Searing  did  not  altogether  relish 
the  situation,  and  turned  away  his  eyes. 

After  groping,  aimless,  with  his  right  hand 
for  a  time  he  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to 
release  his  left.  Then  he  tried  to  disengage 
his  head,  the  fixity  of  which  was  the  more  an- 
noying from  his  ignorance  of  what  held  it. 
Next  he  tried  to  free  his  feet,  but  while  exert- 
ing the  powerful  muscles  of  his  legs  for  that 
purpose  it  occurred  to  him  that  a  disturbance 
of  the  rubbish  which  held  them  might  dis- 


84     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

charge  the  rifle;  how  it  could  have  endured 
what  had  already  befallen  it  he  could  not 
understand,  although  memory  assisted  him 
with  several  instances  in  point.  One  in  particu- 
lar he  recalled,  in  which  in  a  moment  of  mental 
abstraction  he  had  clubbed  his  rifle  and  beaten 
out  another  gentleman's  brains,  observing 
afterward  that  the  weapon  which  he  had  been 
'diligently  swinging  by  the  muzzle  was  loaded, 
capped,  and  at  full  cock — knowledge  of 
which  circumstance  would  doubtless  have 
cheered  his  antagonist  to  longer  endurance. 
He  had  always  smiled  in  recalling  that 
blunder  of  his  "green  and  salad  days"  as  a 
soldier,  but  now  he  did  not  smile.  He  turned 
his  eyes  again  to  the  muzzle  of  the  rifle  and 
for  a  moment  fancied  that  it  had  moved;  it 
seemed  somewhat  nearer. 

Again  he  looked  away.  The  tops  of  the 
distant  trees  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  plant- 
ation interested  him:  he  had  not  before  ob- 
served how  light  and  feathery  they  were,  nor 
how  darkly  blue  the  sky  was,  even  among 
their  branches,  where  they  somewhat  paled  it 
with  their  green;  above  him  it  appeared  al- 
most black.  "  It  will  be  uncomfortably  hot 
here,"  he  thought,  "  as  the  day  advances.  I 
wonder  which  way  I  am  looking." 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         85 

Judging  by  such  shadows  as  he  could  see, 
he  decided  that  his  face  was  due  north;  he 
would  at  least  not  have  the  sun  in  his  eyes, 
and  north — well,  that  was  toward  his  wife  and 
children. 

"Bah!"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "what  have 
they  to  do  with  it?  " 

He  closed  his  eyes.  "  As  I  can't  get  out  I 
may  as  well  go  to  sleep.  The  rebels  are  gone 
and  some  of  our  fellows  are  sure  to  stray  out 
here  foraging.  They'll  find  me." 

But  he  did  not  sleep.  Gradually  he  be- 
came sensible  of  a  pain  in  his  forehead — a 
dull  ache,  hardly  perceptible  at  first,  but 
growing  more  and  more  uncomfortable.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  it  was  gone — closed  them 
and  it  returned.  "The  devil!"  he  said, 
irrelevantly,  and  stared  again  at  the  sky.  He 
heard  the  singing  of  birds,  the  strange  metall- 
ic note  of  the  meadow  lark,  suggesting  the 
clash  of  vibrant  blades.  He  fell  into  pleasant 
memories  of  his  childhood,  played  again  with 
his  brother  and  sister,  raced  across  the  fields, 
shouting  to  alarm  the  sedentary  larks,  entered 
the  sombre  forest  beyond  and  with  timid  steps 
followed  the  faint  path  to  Ghost  Rock,  stand- 
ing at  last  with  audible  heart-throbs  before 
the  Dead  Man's  Cave  and  seeking  to  penetrate 


86     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

its  awful  mystery.  For  the  first  time  he  ob- 
served that  the  opening  of  the  haunted  cavern 
was  encircled  by  a  ring  of  metal.  Then  all 
else  vanished  and  left  him  gazing  into  the  bar- 
rel of  his  rifle  as  before.  But  whereas  before 
it  had  seemed  nearer,  it  now  seemed  an  incon- 
ceivable distance  away,  and  all  the  more  sin- 
ister for  that.  He  cried  out  and,  startled  by 
something  in  his  own  voice — the  note  of  fear 
— lied  to  himself  in  denial :  "  If  I  don't  sing 
out  I  may  stay  here  till  I  die." 

He  now  made  no  further  attempt  to  evade 
the  menacing  stare  of  the  gun  barrel.  If  he 
turned  away  his  eyes  an  instant  it  was  to  look 
for  assistance  (although  he  could  not  see  the 
ground  on  either  side  the  ruin),  and  he  per- 
mitted them  to  return,  obedient  to  the  imper- 
ative fascination.  If  he  closed  them  it  was 
from  weariness,  and  instantly  the  poignant 
pain  in  his  forehead — the  prophecy  and 
menace  of  the  bullet — forced  him  to  reopen 
them. 

The  tension  of  nerve  and  brain  was  too 
severe;  nature  came  to  his  relief  with  intervals 
of  unconsciousness.  Reviving  from  one  of 
these  he  became  sensible  of  a  sharp,  smarting 
pain  in  his  right  hand,  and  when  he  worked 
his  fingers  together,  or  rubbed  his  palm  with 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          87 

them,  he  could  feel  that  they  were  wet  and 
slippery.  He  could  not  see  the  hand,  but  he 
knew  the  sensation ;  it  was  running  blood.  In 
his  delirium  he  had  beaten  it  against  the 
jagged  fragments  of  the  wreck,  had  clutched 
it  full  of  splinters.  He  resolved  that  he  would 
meet  his  fate  more  manly.  He  was  a  plain, 
common  soldier,  had  no  religion  and  not 
much  philosophy;  he  could  not  die  like  a 
hero,  with  great  and  wise  last  words,  even  if 
there  had  been  some  one  to  hear  them,  but  he 
could  die  "  game,"  and  he  would.  But  if  he 
could  only  know  when  to  expect  the  shot! 

Some  rats  which  had  probably  inhabited 
the  shed  came  sneaking  and  scampering  about. 
One  of  them  mounted  the  pile  of  debris  that 
held  the  rifle;  another  followed  and  another. 
Searing  regarded  them  at  first  with  indiffer- 
ence, then  with  friendly  interest;  then,  as  the 
thought  flashed  into  his  bewildered  mind  that 
they  might  touch  the  trigger  of  his  rifle,  he 
cursed  them  and  ordered  them  to  go  away. 
"  It  is  no  business  of  yours,"  he  cried. 

The  creatures  went  away;  they  would  re- 
turn later,  attack  his  face,  gnaw  away  his  nose, 
cut  his  throat — he  knew  that,  but  he  hoped  by 
that  time  to  be  dead. 

Nothing  could  now  unfix  his  gaze  from  the 


88     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

little  ring  of  metal  with  its  black  interior.  The 
pain  in  his  forehead  was  fierce  and  incessant. 
He  felt  it  gradually  penetrating  the  brain 
more  and  more  deeply,  until  at  last  its  pro- 
gress was  arrested  by  the  wood  at  the  back  of 
his  head.  It  grew  momentarily  more  insuf- 
ferable: he  began  wantonly  beating  his  lac- 
erated hand  against  the  splinters  again  to 
counteract  that  horrible  ache.  It  seemed  to 
throb  with  a  slow,  regular  recurrence,  each 
pulsation  sharper  than  the  preceding,  and 
sometimes  he  cried  out,  thinking  he  felt  the 
fatal  bullet.  No  thoughts  of  home,  of  wife 
and  children,  of  country,  of  glory.  The  whole 
record  of  memory  was  effaced.  The  world 
had  passed  away — not  a  vestige  remained. 
Here  in  this  confusion  of  timbers  and  boards 
is  the  sole  universe.  Here  is  immortality  in 
time — each  pain  an  everlasting  life.  The 
throbs  tick  off  eternities. 

Jerome  Searing,  the  man  of  courage,  the 
formidable  enemy,  the  strong,  resolute  war- 
rior, was  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  His  jaw  was 
fallen;  his  eyes  protruded;  he  trembled  in 
every  fibre;  a  cold  sweat  bathed  his  entire 
body;  he  screamed  with  fear.  He  was  not  in- 
sane— he  was  terrified. 

In  groping  about  with  his  torn  and  bleeding 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE          89 

hand  he  seized  at  last  a  strip  of  board,  and, 
pulling,  felt  it  give  way.  It  lay  parallel  with 
his  body,  and  by  bending  his  elbow  as  much 
as  the  contracted  space  would  permit,  he 
could  draw  it  a  few  inches  at  a  time.  Finally 
it  was  altogether  loosened  from  the  wreckage 
covering  his  legs ;  he  could  lift  it  clear  of  the 
ground  its  whole  length.  A  great  hope  came 
into  his  mind:  perhaps  he  could  work  it  up- 
ward, that  is  to  say  backward,  far  enough  to 
lift  the  end  and  push  aside  the  rifle;  or,  if  that 
were  too  tightly  wedged,  so  place  the  strip  of 
board  as  to  deflect  the  bullet.  With  this  object 
he  passed  it  backward  inch  by  inch,  hardly 
daring  to  breathe  lest  that  act  somehow  defeat 
his  intent,  and  more  than  ever  unable  to  re- 
move his  eyes  from  the  rifle,  which  might 
perhaps  now  hasten  to  improve  its  waning 
opportunity.  Something  at  least  had  been 
gained :  in  the  occupation  of  his  mind  in  this 
attempt  at  self-defense  he  was  less  sensible  of 
the  pain  in  his  head  and  had  ceased  to  wince. 
But  he  was  still  dreadfully  frightened  and  his 
teeth  rattled  like  castanets. 

The  strip  of  board  ceased  to  move  to  the 
suasion  of  his  hand.  He  tugged  at  it  with  all 
his  strength,  changed  the  direction  of  its 
length  all  he  could,  but  it  had  met  some  ex- 


90     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

tended  obstruction  behind  him  and  the  end 
in  front  was  still  too  far  away  to  clear  the  pile 
of  debris  and  reach  the  muzzle  of  the  gun.  It 
extended,  indeed,  nearly  as  far  as  the  trigger 
,guard,  which,  uncovered  by  the  rubbish,  he 
could  imperfectly  see  with  his  right  eye.  He 
tried  to  break  the  strip  with  his  hand,  but  had 
no  leverage.  In  his  defeat,  all  his  terror  re- 
turned, augmented  tenfold.  The  black 
aperture  of  the  rifle  appeared  to  threaten  a 
sharper  and  more  imminent  death  in  punish- 
ment of  his  rebellion.  The  track  of  the  bullet 
through  his  head  ached  with  an  intenser 
anguish.  He  began  to  tremble  again. 

Suddenly  he  became  composed.  His 
tremor  subsided.  He  clenched  his  teeth  and 
drew  down  his  eyebrows.  He  had  not  ex- 
hausted his  means  of  defense;  a  new  design 
had  shaped  itself  in  his  mind — another  plan  of 
battle.  Raising  the  front  end  of  the  strip  of 
board,  he  carefully  pushed  it  forward  through 
the  wreckage  at  the  side  of  the  rifle  until  it 
pressed  against  the  trigger  guard.  Then  he 
moved  the  end  slowly  outward  until  he  could 
feel  that  it  had  cleared  it,  then,  closing  his 
eyes,  thrust  it  against  the  trigger  with  all  his 
strength!  There  was  no  explosion;  the  rifle 
had  been  discharged  as  it  dropped  from  his 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          91 

hand  when  the  building  fell.    But  it  did  its 
work. 

Lieutenant  Adrian  Searing,  in  command  of 
the  picket-guard  on  that  part  of  the  line 
through  which  his  brother  Jerome  had  passed 
on  his  mission,  sat  with  attentive  ears  in  his 
breastwork  behind  the  line.  Not  the  faintest 
sound  escaped  him;  the  cry  of  a  bird,  the 
barking  of  a  squirrel,  the  noise  of  the  wind 
among  the  pines — all  were  anxiously  noted 
by  his  overstrained  sense.  Suddenly,  directly 
in  front  of  his  line,  he  heard  a  faint,  confused 
rumble,  like  the  clatter  of  a  falling  building 
translated  by  distance.  The  lieutenant  me- 
chanically looked  at  his  watch.  Six  o'clock 
and  eighteen  minutes.  At  the  same  moment 
an  officer  approached  him  on  foot  from  the 
r.ear  and  saluted. 

"  Lieutenant,"  said  the  officer,  "  the  colonel 
directs  you  to  move  forward  your  line  and 
feel  the  enemy  if  you  find  him.  If  not,  con- 
tinue the  advance  until  directed  to  halt. 
There  is  reason  to  think  that  the  enemy  has 
retreated." 

The  lieutenant  nodded  and  said  nothing; 
the  other  officer  retired.  In  a  moment  the 
men,  apprised  of  their  duty  by  the  non-com- 


92     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

missioned  officers  in  low  tones,  had  deployed 
from  their  rifle-pits  and  were  moving  forward 
in  skirmishing  order,  with  set  teeth  and  beat- 
ing hearts. 

This  line  of  skirmishers  sweeps  across  the 
plantation  toward  the  mountain.  They  pass 
on  both  sides  of  the  wrecked  building,  observ- 
ing nothing.  At  a  short  distance  in  their  rear 
their  commander  comes.  He  casts  his  eyes 
curiously  upon  the  ruin  and  sees  a  dead  body 
half  buried  in  boards  and  timbers.  It  is  so 
covered  with  dust  that  its  clothing  is  Con- 
federate gray.  Its  face  is  yellowish  white; 
the  cheeks  are  fallen  in,  the  temples  sunken, 
too,  with  sharp  ridges  about  them,  making  the 
forehead  forbiddingly  narrow;  the  upper  lip, 
slightly  lifted,  shows  the  white  teeth,  rigidly 
clenched.  The  hair  is  heavy  with  moisture, 
the  face  as  wet  as  the  dewy  grass  all  about. 
From  his  point  of  view  the  officer  does  not 
observe  the  rifle;  the  man  was  apparently 
killed  by  the  fall  of  the  building. 

"Dead  a  week,"  said  the  officer  curtly, 
moving  on  and  absently  pulling  out  his  watch 
as  if  to  verify  his  estimate  of  time.  Six  o'clock 
and  forty  minutes. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         93 


KILLED  AT  RESACA 

THE  best  soldier  of  our  staff  was 
Lieutenant  Herman  Brayle,  one  of 
the  two  aides-de-camp.  I  don't  re- 
member where  the  general  picked 
him  up;  from  some  Ohio  regiment,  I  think; 
none  of  us  had  previously  known  him,  and  it 
would  have  been  strange  if  we  had,  for  no  two 
of  us  came  from  the  same  State,  nor  even  from 
adjoining  States.  The  general  seemed  to  think 
that  a  position  on  his  staff  was  a  distinction 
that  should  be  so  judiciously  conferred  as  not 
to  beget  any  sectional  jealousies  and  imperil 
the  integrity  of  that  part  of  the  country  which 
was  still  an  integer.  He  would  not  even 
choose  officers  from  his  own  command,  but  by 
some  jugglery  at  department  headquarters  ob- 
tained them  from  other  brigades.  Under  such 
circumstances,  a  man's  services  had  to  be  very 
distinguished  indeed  to  be  heard  of  by  his 
family  and  the  friends  of  his  youth ;  and  "  the 
speaking  trump  of  fame  "  was  a  trifle  hoarse 
from  loquacity,  anyhow. 

Lieutenant  Brayle  was  more  than  six  feet 
in  height  and  of  splendid  proportions,  with 


94     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  light  hair  and  gray-blue  eyes  which  men 
so  gifted  usually  find  associated  with  a  high 
order  of  courage.  As  he  was  commonly  in 
full  uniform,  especially  in  action,  when  most 
officers  are  content  to  be  less  flamboyantly 
attired,  he  was  a  very  striking  and  conspicuous 
figure.  As  to  the  rest,  he  had  a  gentleman's 
manners,  a  scholar's  head,  and  a  lion's  heart. 
His  age  was  about  thirty. 

We  all  soon  came  to  like  Brayle  as  much 
as  we  admired  him,  and  it  was  with  sincere 
concern  that  in  the  engagement  at  Stone's 
River — our  first  action  after  he  joined  us — 
we  observed  that  he  had  one  most  objection- 
able and  unsoldierly  quality :  he  was  vain  of 
his  courage.  During  all  the  vicissitudes  and 
mutations  of  that  hideous  encounter,  whether 
our  troops  were  fighting  in  the  open  cotton 
fields,  in  the  cedar  thickets,  or  behind  the 
railway  embankment,  he  did  not  once  take 
cover,  except  when  sternly  commanded  to  do 
so  by  the  general,  who  usually  had  other 
things  to  think  of  than  the  lives  of  his  staff 
officers — or  those  of  his  men,  for  that  matter. 

In  every  later  engagement  while  Brayle  was 
with  us  it  was  the  same  way.  He  would  sit 
his  horse  like  an  equestrian  statue,  in  a  storm 
of  bullets  and  grape,  in  the  most  exposed 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE          95 

places — wherever,  in  fact,  duty,  requiring  him 
to  go,  permitted  him  to  remain — when,  with- 
out trouble  and  with  distinct  advantage  to  his 
reputation  for  common  sense,  he  might  have 
been  in  such  security  as  is  possible  on  a  battle- 
field in  the  brief  intervals  of  personal  inac- 
tion. 

On  foot,  from  necessity  or  in  deference  to 
his  dismounted  commander  or  associates,  his 
conduct  was  the  same.  He  would  stand  like 
a  rock  in  the  open  when  officers  and  men  alike 
had  taken  to  cover;  while  men  older  in  service 
and  years,  higher  in  rank  and  of  unquestion- 
able intrepidity,  were  loyally  preserving 
behind  the  crest  of  a  hill  lives  infinitely  pre- 
cious to  their  country,  this  fellow  would  stand, 
equally  idle,  on  the  ridge,  facing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sharpest  fire. 

When  battles  are  going  on  in  open  ground 
it  frequently  occurs  that  the  opposing  lines, 
confronting  each  other  within  a  stone's  throw 
for  hours,  hug  the  earth  as  closely  as  if  they 
loved  it.  The  line  officers  in  their  proper 
places  flatten  themselves  no  less,  and  the  field 
officers,  their  horses  all  killed  or  sent  to  the 
rear,  crouch  beneath  the  infernal  canopy  of 
hissing  lead  and  screaming  iron  without  a 
thought  of  personal  dignity. 


96     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

In  such  circumstances  the  life  of  a  staff 
officer  of  a  brigade  is  distinctly  "  not  a  happy 
one,"  mainly  because  of  its  precarious  tenure 
and  the  unnerving  alternations  of  emotion  to 
which  he  is  exposed.  From  a  position  of  that 
comparative  security  from  which  a  civilian 
would  ascribe  his  escape  to  a  "miracle,"  he 
may  be  despatched  with  an  order  to  some  com- 
mander of  a  prone  regiment  in  the  front  line 
— a  person  for  the  moment  inconspicuous  and 
not  always  easy  to  find  without  a  deal  of 
search  among  men  somewhat  preoccupied, 
and  in  a  din  in  which  question  and  answer 
alike  must  be  imparted  in  the  sign  language. 
It  is  customary  in  such  cases  to  duck  the  head 
and  scuttle  away  on  a  keen  run,  an  object  of 
lively  interest  to  some  thousands  of  admiring 
marksmen.  In  returning — well,  it  is  not  cus- 
tomary to  return. 

Brayle's  practice  was  different.  He  would 
consign  his  horse  to  the  care  of  an  orderly, — 
he  loved  his  horse, — and  walk  quietly  away 
on  his  perilous  errand  with  never  a  stoop  of 
the  back,  his  splendid  figure,  accentuated  by 
his  uniform,  holding  the  eye  with  a  strange 
fascination.  We  watched  him  with  suspended 
breath,  our  hearts  in  our  mouths.  On  one 
occasion  of  this  kind,  indeed,  one  of  our  num- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE         97 

her,  an  impetuous  stammerer,  was  so  possessed 
by  his  emotion  that  he  shouted  at  me: 

"I'll  b-b-bet  you  t-two  d-d-dollars  they 
d-drop  him  b-b-before  he  g-gets  to  that  d-d- 
ditch!" 

I  did  not  accept  the  brutal  wager;  I 
thought  they  would. 

Let  me  do  justice  to  a  brave  man's  memory; 
in  all  these  needless  exposures  of  life  there  was 
no  visible  bravado  nor  subsequent  narration. 
In  the  few  instances  when  some  of  us  had 
ventured  to  remonstrate,  Brayle  had  smiled 
pleasantly  and  made  some  light  reply,  which, 
however,  had  not  encouraged  a  further  pur- 
suit of  the  subject.  Once  he  said : 

"  Captain,  if  ever  I  come  to  grief  by  for- 
getting your  advice,  I  hope  my  last  moments 
will  be  cheered  by  the  sound  of  your  beloved 
voice  breathing  into  my  ear  the  blessed  words, 
'I  told  you  so.'" 

We  laughed  at  the  captain — just  why  we 
could  probably  not  have  explained — and  that 
afternoon  when  he  was  shot  to  rags  from  an 
ambuscade  Brayle  remained  by  the  body  for 
some  time,  adjusting  the  limbs  with  needless 
care — there  in  the  middle  of  a  road  swept  by 
gusts  of  grape  and  canister!  It  is  easy  to  con- 
demn this  kind  of  thing,  and  not  very  difficult 


98     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

to  refrain  from  imitation,  but  it  is  impossible 
not  to  respect,  and  Brayle  was  liked  none  the 
less  for  the  weakness  which  had  so  heroic  an 
expression.  We  wished  he  were  not  a  fool, 
but  he  went  on  that  way  to  the  end,  sometimes 
hard  hit,  but  always  returning  to  duty  about 
as  good  as  new. 

Of  course,  it  came  at  last;  he  who  ignores 
the  law  of  probabilities  challenges  an  adver- 
sary that  is  seldom  beaten.  It  was  at  Resaca, 
in  Georgia,  during  the  movement  that  resulted 
in  the  taking  of  Atlanta.  In  front  of  our 
brigade  the  enemy's  line  of  earthworks  ran 
through  open  fields  along  a  slight  crest.  At 
each  end  of  this  open  ground  we  were  close  up 
to  him  in  the  woods,  but  the  clear  ground  we 
could  not  hope  to  occupy  until  night,  when 
darkness  would  enable  us  to  burrow  like  moles 
and  throw  up  earth.  At  this  point  our  line 
was  a  quarter-mile  away  in  the  edge  of  a 
wood.  Roughly,  we  formed  a  semicircle,  the 
enemy's  fortified  line  being  the  chord  of 
the  arc. 

"  Lieutenant,  go  tell  Colonel  Ward  to  work 
up  as  close  as  he  can  get  cover,  and  not  to 
waste  much  ammunition  in  unnecessary  firing. 
You  may  leave  your  horse." 

When  the  general  gave  this  direction  we 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE          99 

were  in  the  fringe  of  the  forest,  near  the  right 
extremity  of  the  arc.  Colonel  Ward  was  at 
the  left.  The  suggestion  to  leave  the  horse 
obviously  enough  meant  that  Brayle  was  to 
take  the  longer  line,  through  the  woods  and 
among  the  men.  Indeed,  the  suggestion  was 
needless ;  to  go  by  the  short  route  meant  abso- 
lutely certain  failure  to  deliver  the  message. 
Before  anybody  could  interpose,  Brayle  had 
cantered  lightly  into  the  field  and  the  enemy's 
works  were  in  crackling  conflagration. 

"Stop  that  damned  fool!"  shouted  the 
general. 

A  private  of  the  escort,  with  more  ambition 
than  brains,  spurred  forward  to  obey,  and 
within  ten  yards  left  himself  and  his  horse 
dead  on  the  field  of  honor. 

Brayle  was  beyond  recall,  galloping  easily 
along,  parallel  to  the  enemy  and  less  than  two 
hundred  yards  distant.  He  was  a  picture  to 
see!  His  hat  had  been  blown  or  shot  from 
his  head,  and  his  long,  blond  hair  rose  and  fell 
with  the  motion  of  his  horse.  He  sat  erect  in 
the  saddle,  holding  the  reins  lightly  in  his  left 
hand,  his  right  hanging  carelessly  at  his  side. 
An  occasional  glimpse  of  his  handsome  profile 
as  he  turned  his  head  one  way  or  the  other 
proved  that  the  interest  which  he  took  in  what 


100    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

was  going  on  was  natural  and  without  affecta- 
tion. 

The  picture  was  intensely  dramatic,  but  in 
no  degree  theatrical.  Successive  scores  of 
rifles  spat  at  him  viciously  as  he  came  within 
range,  and  our  own  line  in  the  edge  of  the 
timber  broke  out  in  visible  and  audible  de- 
fense. No  longer  regardful  of  themselves  or 
their  orders,  our  fellows  sprang  to  their  feet, 
and  swarming  into  the  open  sent  broad  sheets 
of  bullets  against  the  blazing  crest  of  the 
offending  works,  which  poured  an  answering 
fire  into  their  unprotected  groups  with  deadly 
effect.  The  artillery  on  both  sides  joined  the 
battle,  punctuating  the  rattle  and  roar  with 
deep,  earth-shaking  explosions  and  tearing  the 
air  with  storms  of  screaming  grape,  which 
from  the  enemy's  side  splintered  the  trees  and 
spattered  them  with  blood,  and  from  ours 
defiled  the  smoke  of  his  arms  with  banks  and 
clouds  of  dust  from  his  parapet. 

My  attention  had  been  for  a  moment  drawn 
to  the  general  combat,  but  now,  glancing 
down  the  unobscured  avenue  between  these 
two  thunderclouds,  I  saw  Brayle,  the  cause 
of  the  carnage.  Invisible  now  from  either 
side,  and  equally  doomed  by  friend  and  foe, 
he  stood  in  the  shot-swept  space,  motionless, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        101 

his  face  toward  the  enemy.  At  some  little  dis- 
tance lay  his  horse.  I  instantly  saw  what  had 
stopped  him. 

As  topographical  engineer  I  had,  early  in 
the  day,  made  a  hasty  examination  of  the 
ground,  and  now  remembered  that  at  that 
point  was  a  deep  and  sinuous  gully,  crossing 
half  the  field  from  the  enemy's  line,  its  general 
course  at  right  angles  to  it.  From  where  we 
now  were  it  was  invisible,  and  Brayle  had  evi- 
dently not  known  about  it.  Clearly,  it  was 
impassable.  Its  salient  angles  would  have 
afforded  him  absolute  security  if  he  had 
chosen  to  be  satisfied  with  the  miracle  already 
wrought  in  his  favor  and  leapt  into  it.  He 
could  not  go  forward,  he  would  not  turn  back; 
he  stood  awaiting  death.  It  did  not  keep  him 
long  waiting. 

By  some  mysterious  coincidence,  almost  in- 
stantaneously as  he  fell,  the  firing  ceased,  a 
few  desultory  shots  at  long  intervals  serving 
rather  to  accentuate  than  break  the  silence.  It 
was  as  if  both  sides  had  suddenly  repented  of 
their  profitless  crime.  Four  stretcher-bearers 
of  ours,  following  a  sergeant  with  a  white  flag, 
soon  afterward  moved  unmolested  into  the 
field,  and  made  straight  for  Brayle's  body. 
Several  Confederate  officers  and  men  came 


102    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

out  to  meet  them,  and  with  uncovered  heads 
assisted  them  to  take  up  their  sacred  burden. 
!As  it  was  borne  toward  us  we  heard  beyond 
the  hostile  works  fifes  and  a  muffled  drum — a 
dirge.  A  generous  enemy  honored  the  fallen 
brave. 

Amongst  the  dead  man's  effects  was  a  soiled 
Russia-leather  pocketbook.  In  the  distribu- 
tion of  mementoes  of  our  friend,  which  the 
general,  as  administrator,  decreed,  this  fell 
to  me. 

A  year  after  the  close  of  the  war,  on  my  way 
to  California,  I  opened  and  idly  inspected  it. 
Out  of  an  overlooked  compartment  fell  a  let- 
ter without  envelope  or  address.  It  was  in  a 
woman's  handwriting,  and  began  with  words 
of  endearment,  but  no  name. 

It  had  the  following  date  line :  "San  Fran- 
cisco, Cal.,  July  9,  1862."  The  signature  was 
"  Darling,"  in  marks  of  quotation.  Incident- 
ally, in  the  body  of  the  text,  the  writer's  full 
name  was  given — Marian  Mendenhall. 

The  letter  showed  evidence  of  cultivation 
and  good  breeding,  but  it  was  an  ordinary 
love  letter,  if  a  love  letter  can  be  ordinary. 
There  was  not  much  in  it,  but  there  was  some- 
thing. It  was  this : 

"Mr.  Winters,  whom  I  shall  always  hate 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        103 

for  it,  has  been  telling  that  at  some  battle 
in  Virginia,  where  he  got  his  hurt,  you  were 
seen  crouching  behind  a  tree.  I  think  he 
wants  to  injure  you  in  my  regard,  which  he 
knows  the  story  would  do  if  I  believed  it.  I 
could  bear  to  hear  of  my  soldier  lover's  death, 
but  not  of  his  cowardice." 

These  were  the  words  which  on  that  sunny 
afternoon,  in  a  distant  region,  had  slain  a 
hundred  men.  Is  woman  weak? 

One  evening  I  called  on  Miss  Mendenhall 
to  return  the  letter  to  her.  I  intended,  also, 
to  tell  her  what  she  had  done — but  not  that 
she  did  it.  I  found  her  in  a  handsome  dwell- 
ing on  Rincon  Hill.  She  was  beautiful,  well 
bred — in  a  word,  charming. 

"You  knew  Lieutenant  Herman  Brayle,"  I 
said,  rather  abruptly.  "  You  know,  doubtless, 
that  he  fell  in  battle.  Among  his  effects  was 
found  this  letter  from  you.  My  errand  here 
is  to  place  it  in  your  hands." 

She  mechanically  took  the  letter,  glanced 
through  it  with  deepening  color,  and  then, 
looking  at  me  with  a  smile,  said: 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,  though  I  am  sure 
it  was  hardly  worth  while."  She  started  sud- 
denly and  changed  color.  "This  stain,"  she 
said,  "  is  it — surely  it  is  not " 


104.    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  "  pardon  me,  but  that  is 
the  blood  of  the  truest  and  bravest  heart  that 
ever  beat." 

She  hastily  flung  the  letter  on  the  blazing 
coals.  "Uhl  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of 
blood  1 "  she  said.  "  How  did  he  die?  " 

I  had  involuntarily  risen  to  rescue  that 
scrap  of  paper,  sacred  even  to  me,  and  now 
stood  partly  behind  her.  As  she  asked  the 
question  she  turned  her  face  about  and  slightly 
upward.  The  light  of  the  burning  letter  was 
reflected  in  her  eyes  and  touched  her  cheek 
with  a  tinge  of  crimson  like  the  stain  upon  its 
page.  I  had  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful 
as  this  detestable  creature. 

"He  was  bitten  by  a  snake,"  I  replied. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        105 


THE  AFFAIR  AT  COULTER'S  NOTCH 

DO  you  think,  Colonel,  that  your  brave 
Coulter  would  like  to  put  one  of  his 
guns  in  here?"  the  general  asked. 

He  was  apparently  not  altogether 
serious;  it  certainly  did  not  seem  a  place 
where  any  artillerist,  however  brave,  would 
like  to  put  a  gun.  The  colonel  thought  that 
possibly  his  division  commander  meant  good- 
humoredly  to  intimate  that  in  a  recent  con- 
versation between  them  Captain  Coulter's 
courage  had  been  too  highly  extolled. 

"General,"  he  replied  warmly,  "Coulter 
would  like  to  put  a  gun  anywhere  within 
reach  of  those  people,"  with  a  motion  of  his 
hand  in  the  direction  of  the  enemy. 

"  It  is  the  only  place,"  said  the  general.  He 
was  serious,  then. 

The  place  was  a  depression,  a  "  notch,"  in 
the  sharp  crest  of  a  hill.  It  was  a  pass,  and 
through  it  ran  a  turnpike,  which  reaching  this 
highest  point  in  its  course  by  a  sinuous  ascent 
through  a  thin  forest  made  a  similar,  though 
less  steep,  descent  toward  the  enemy.  For  a 
mile  to  the  left  and  a  mile  to  the  right,  the 


106    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ridge,  though  occupied  by  Federal  infantry 
lying  close  behind  the  sharp  crest  and  appear- 
ing as  if  held  in  place  by  atmospheric  press- 
ure, was  inaccessible  to  artillery.  There  was 
no  place  but  the  bottom  of  the  notch,  and  that 
was  barely  wide  enough  for  the  roadbed. 
From  the  Confederate  side  this  point  was 
commanded  by  two  batteries  posted  on  a 
slightly  lower  elevation  beyond  a  creek,  and  a 
half-mile  away.  All  the  guns  but  one  were 
masked  by  the  trees  of  an  orchard ;  that  one — 
it  seemed  a  bit  of  impudence — was  on  an  open 
lawn  directly  in  front  of  a  rather  grandiose 
building,  the  planter's  dwelling.  The  gun 
was  safe  enough  in  its  exposure — but  only 
because  the  Federal  infantry  had  been  for- 
bidden to  fire.  Coulter's  Notch — it  came  to 
be  called  so — was  not,  that  pleasant  summer 
afternoon,  a  place  where  one  would  "  like  to 
put  a  gun." 

Three  or  four  dead  horses  lay  there 
sprawling  in  the  road,  three  or  four  dead  men 
in  a  trim  row  at  one  side  of  it,  and  a  little 
back,  down  the  hill.  All  but  one  were  cav- 
alrymen belonging  to  the  Federal  advance. 
One  was  a  quartermaster.  The  general  com- 
manding the  division  and  the  colonel  com- 
manding the  brigade,  with  their  staffs  and  es- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        107 

corts,  had  ridden  into  the  notch  to  have  a  look 
at  the  enemy's  guns — which  had  straightway 
obscured  themselves  in  towering  clouds  of 
smoke.  It  was  hardly  profitable  to  be  curious 
about  guns  which  had  the  trick  of  the  cuttle- 
fish, and  the  season  of  observation  had  been 
brief.  At  its  conclusion — a  short  remove 
backward  from  where  it  began — occurred  the 
conversation  already  partly  reported.  "  It  is 
the  only  place,"  the  general  repeated  thought- 
fully, "  to  get  at  them." 

The  colonel  looked  at  him  gravely.  "  There 
is  room  for  only  one  gun,  General — one 
against  twelve." 

"  That  is  true — for  only  one  at  a  time,"  said 
the  commander  with  something  like,  yet  not 
altogether  like,  a  smile.  "  But  then,  your  brave 
Coulter — a  whole  battery  in  himself." 

The  tone  of  irony  was  now  unmistakable. 
It  angered  the  colonel,  but  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  The  spirit  of  military  subordina- 
tion is  not  favorable  to  retort,  nor  even  to 
deprecation. 

At  this  moment  a  young  officer  of  artillery 
came  riding  slowly  up  the  road  attended  by 
his  bugler.  It  was  Captain  Coulter.  He  could 
not  have  been  more  than  twenty- three  years  of 
age.  He  was  of  medium  height,  but  very 


108    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

slender  and  lithe,  and  sat  his  horse  with  some- 
thing of  the  air  of  a  civilian.  In  face  he  was 
of  a  type  singularly  unlike  the  men  about  him; 
thin,  high-nosed,  gray-eyed,  with  a  slight 
blond  mustache,  and  long,  rather  straggling 
hair  of  the  same  color.  There  was  an  appar- 
ent negligence  in  his  attire.  His  cap  was 
worn  with  the  visor  a  trifle  askew;  his  coat 
was  buttoned  only  at  the  sword-belt,  showing 
a  considerable  expanse  of  white  shirt,  toler- 
ably clean  for  that  stage  of  the  campaign.  But 
the  negligence  was  all  in  his  dress  and  bear- 
ing; in  his  face  was  a  look  of  intense  interest 
in  his  surroundings.  His  gray  eyes,  which 
seemed  occasionally  to  strike  right  and  left 
across  the  landscape,  like  search-lights,  were 
for  the  most  part  fixed  upon  the  sky  beyond 
the  Notch ;  until  he  should  arrive  at  the  sum- 
mit of  the  road  there  was  nothing  else  in  that 
direction  to  see.  As  he  came  opposite  his 
division  and  brigade  commanders  at  the  road- 
side he  saluted  mechanically  and  was  about  to 
pass  on.  The  colonel  signed  to  him  to  halt. 

"  Captain  Coulter,"  he  said,  "  the  enemy 
has  twelve  pieces  over  there  on  the  next  ridge. 
If  I  rightly  understand  the  general,  he  directs 
that  you  bring  up  a  gun  and  engage  them." 

There  was  a  blank  silence;  the  general 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       109 

looked  stolidly  at  a  distant  regiment  swarm- 
ing slowly  up  the  hill  through  rough  under- 
growth, like  a  torn  and  draggled  cloud  of  blue 
smoke;  the  captain  appeared  not  to  have 
observed  him.  Presently  the  captain  spoke, 
slowly  and  with  apparent  effort: 

"On  the  next  ridge,  did  you  say,  sir?  Are 
the  guns  near  the  house?  " 

"  Ah,  you  have  been  over  this  road  before. 
Directly  at  the  house." 

"And  it  is — necessary — to  engage  them? 
The  order  is  imperative?  " 

His  voice  was  husky  and  broken.  He  was 
visibly  paler.  The  colonel  was  astonished  and 
mortified.  He  stole  a  glance  at  the  com- 
mander. In  that  set,  immobile  face  was  no 
sign;  it  was  as  hard  as  bronze.  A  moment 
later  the  general  rode  away,  followed  by  his 
staff  and  escort.  The  colonel,  humiliated  and 
indignant,  was  about  to  order  Captain  Coulter 
in  arrest,  when  the  latter  spoke  a  few  words 
in  a  low  tone  to  his  bugler,  saluted,  and  rode 
straight  forward  into  the  Notch,  where, 
presently,  at  the  summit  of  the  road,  his  field- 
glass  at  his  eyes,  he  showed  against  the  sky, 
he  and  his  horse,  sharply  defined  and 
statuesque.  The  bugler  had  dashed  down  the 


110    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

speed  and  disappeared  behind  a  wood.  Pres- 
ently his  bugle  was  heard  singing  in  the  ce- 
dars, and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  a  single 
gun  with  its  caisson,  each  drawn  by  six  horses 
and  manned  by  its  full  complement  of  gunn- 
ers, came  bounding  and  banging  up  the 
grade  in  a  storm  of  dust,  unlimbered  under 
cover,  and  was  run  forward  by  hand  to  the 
fatal  crest  among  the  dead  horses.  A  gesture 
of  the  captain's  arm,  some  strangely  agile 
movements  of  the  men  in  loading,  and  almost 
before  the  troops  along  the  way  had  ceased  to 
hear  the  rattle  of  the  wheels,  a  great  white 
cloud  sprang  forward  down  the  slope,  and 
with  a  deafening  report  the  affair  at  Coulter's 
Notch  had  begun. 

It  is  not  intended  to  relate  in  detail  the 
progress  and  incidents  of  that  ghastly  con- 
test— a  contest  without  vicissitudes,  its  alterna- 
tions only  different  degrees  of  despair.  Al- 
most at  the  instant  when  Captain  Coulter's 
gun  blew  its  challenging  cloud  twelve  answer- 
ing clouds  rolled  upward  from  among  the 
trees  about  the  plantation  house,  a  deep  mul- 
tiple report  roared  back  like  a  broken  echo, 
and  thenceforth  to  the  end  the  Federal  can- 
noneers fought  their  hopeless  battle  in  an 
atmosphere  of  living  iron  whose  thoughts 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        111 

were  lightnings  and  whose  deeds  were 
death. 

Unwilling  to  see  the  efforts  which  he  could 
not  aid  and  the  slaughter  which  he  could  not 
stay,  the  colonel  ascended  the  ridge  at  a  point 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  left,  whence  the 
Notch,  itself  invisible,  but  pushing  up  suc- 
cessive masses  of  smoke,  seemed  the  crater  of 
a  volcano  in  thundering  eruption.  With  his 
glass  he  watched  the  enemy's  guns,  noting  as 
he  could  the  effects  of  Coulter's  fire — if  Coul- 
ter still  lived  to  direct  it  He  saw  that  the 
Federal  gunners,  ignoring  those  of  the 
enemy's  pieces  whose  positions  could  be  de- 
termined by  their  smoke  only,  gave  their 
whole  attention  to  the  one  that  maintained  its 
place  in  the  open — the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
house.  Over  and  about  that  hardy  piece  the 
shells  exploded  at  intervals  of  a  few  seconds. 
Some  exploded  in  the  house,  as  could  be  seen 
by  thin  ascensions  of  smoke  from  the  breached 
roof.  Figures  of  prostrate  men  and  horses 
were  plainly  visible. 

"If  our  fellows  are  doing  so  good  work 
with  a  single  gun,"  said  the  colonel  to  an  aide 
who  happened  to  be  nearest,  "they  must  be 
suffering  like  the  devil  from  twelve.  Go 
down  and  present  the  commander  of  that 


112    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

piece  with  my  congratulations  on  the  accuracy 
of  his  fire." 

Turning  to  his  adjutant-general  he  said, 
"Did  you  observe  Coulter's  damned  reluct- 
ance to  obey  orders?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  did." 

"Well,  say  nothing  about  it,  please.  I 
don't  think  the  general  will  care  to  make  any 
accusations.  He  will  probably  have  enough 
to  do  in  explaining  his  own  connection  with 
this  uncommon  way  of  amusing  the  rear- 
guard of  a  retreating  enemy." 

A  young  officer  approached  from  below, 
climbing  breathless  up  the  acclivity.  Almost 
before  he  had  saluted,  he  gasped  out: 

"  Colonel,  I  am  directed  by  Colonel  Har- 
mon to  say  that  the  enemy's  guns  are  within 
easy  reach  of  our  rifles,  and  most  of  them  vis- 
ible from  several  points  along  the  ridge." 

The  brigade  commander  looked  at  him 
without  a  trace  of  interest  in  his  expression. 
"  I  know  it,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  young  adjutant  was  visibly  embar- 
rassed. "  Colonel  Harmon  would  like  to  have 
permission  to  silence  those  guns,"  he  stam- 
mered. 

"  So  should  I,"  the  colonel  said  in  the  same 
tone.  "Present  my  compliments  to  Colonel 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       113 

Harmon  and  say  to  him  that  the  general's 
orders  for  the  infantry  not  to  fire  are  still  in 
force." 

The  adjutant  saluted  and  retired.  The  col- 
onel ground  his  heel  into  the  earth  and  turned 
to  look  again  at  the  enemy's  guns. 

"  Colonel,"  said  the  adjutant-general,  "  I 
don't  know  that  I  ought  to  say  anything,  but 
there  is  something  wrong  in  all  this.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  that  Captain  Coulter  is  from 
the  South?" 

"No;«wwhe,  indeed?" 

"I  heard  that  last  summer  the  division 
which  the  general  then  commanded  was  in  the 
vicinity  of  Coulter's  home — camped  there  for 
weeks,  and " 

"  Listen ! "  said  the  colonel,  interrupting 
with  an  upward  gesture.  "Do  you  hear 
that?" 

11  That "  was  the  silence  of  the  Federal  gun. 
The  staff,  the  orderlies,  the  lines  of  infantry 
behind  the  crest — all  had  "  heard,"  and  were 
looking  curiously  in  the  direction  of  the 
crater,  whence  no  smoke  now  ascended  except 
desultory  cloudlets  from  the  enemy's  shells. 
Then  came  the  blare  of  a  bugle,  a  faint  rattle 
of  wheels;  a  minute  later  the  sharp  reports 
recommenced  with  double  activity.  The  de- 


114    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

molished  gun  had  been  replaced  with  a  sound 
one. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  adjutant-general,  resuming 
his  narrative,  "  the  general  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Coulter's  family.  There  was  trouble 
' — I  don't  know  the  exact  nature  of  it — some- 
thing about  Coulter's  wife.  She  is  a  red-hot 
Secessionist,  as  they  all  are,  except  Coulter 
himself,  but  she  is  a  good  wife  and  high-bred 
lady.  There  was  a  complaint  to  army  head- 
quarters. The  general  was  transferred  to  this 
'division.  It  is  odd  that  Coulter's  battery 
should  afterward  have  been  assigned  to  it." 

The  colonel  had  risen  from  the  rock  upon 
which  they  had  been  sitting.  His  eyes  were 
blazing  with  a  generous  indignation. 

"  See  here,  Morrison,"  said  he,  looking  his 
gossiping  staff  officer  straight  in  the  face,  "  did 
you  get  that  story  from  a  gentleman  or  a 
liar?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  how  I  got  it,  Colonel, 
unless  it  is  necessary" — he  was  blushing  a 
trifle—"  but  I'll  stake  my  life  upon  its  truth 
in  the  main." 

The  colonel  turned  toward  a  small  knot  of 
officers  some  distance  away.  "  Lieutenant 
Williams!"  he  shouted. 

One  of  the  officers  detached  himself  from 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        115 

the  group  and  coming  forward  saluted,  say- 
ing: "Pardon  me,  Colonel,  I  thought  you 
had  been  informed.  Williams  is  dead  down 
there  by  the  gun.  What  can  I  do,  sir?  " 

Lieutenant  Williams  was  the  aide  who  had 
had  the  pleasure  of  conveying  to  the  officer 
in  charge  of  the  gun  his  brigade  commander's 
congratulations. 

"Go,"  said  the  colonel,  "and  direct  the 
withdrawal  of  that  gun  instantly.  No — I'll 
go  myself." 

He  strode  down  the  declivity  toward  the 
rear  of  the  Notch  at  a  break-neck  pace,  over 
rocks  and  through  brambles,  followed  by  his 
little  retinue  in  tumultuous  disorder.  At  the 
foot  of  the  declivity  they  mounted  their  wait- 
ing animals  and  took  to  the  road  at  a  lively 
trot,  round  a  bend  and  into  the  Notch.  The 
spectacle  which  they  encountered  there  was 
appalling! 

Within  that  defile,  barely  broad  enough  for 
a  single  gun,  were  piled  the  wrecks  of  no 
fewer  than  four.  They  had  noted  the  silenc- 
ing of  only  the  last  one  disabled — there  had 
been  a  lack  of  men  to  replace  it  quickly  with 
another.  The  debris  lay  on  both  sides  of  the 
road ;  the  men  had  managed  to  keep  an  open 
way  between,  through  which  the  fifth  piece 


116    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

was  now  firing.  The  men? — they  looked  like 
demons  of  the  pit!  All  were  hatless,  all 
stripped  to  the  waist,  their  reeking  skins  black 
with  blotches  of  powder  and  spattered  with 
gouts  of  blood.  They  worked  like  madmen, 
with  rammer  and  cartridge,  lever  and  lanyard. 
They  set  their  swollen  shoulders  and  bleeding 
hands  against  the  wheels  at  each  recoil  and 
heaved  the  heavy  gun  back  to  its  place.  There 
were  no  commands;  in  that  awful  environ- 
ment of  whooping  shot,  exploding  shells, 
shrieking  fragments  of  iron,  and  flying  splint- 
ers of  wood,  none  could  have  been  heard. 
Officers,  if  officers  there  were,  were  indistin- 
guishable; all  worked  together — each  while 
he  lasted — governed  by  the  eye.  When  the 
gun  was  sponged,  it  was  loaded ;  when  loaded, 
aimed  and  fired.  The  colonel  observed  some- 
thing new  to  his  military  experience — some- 
thing horrible  and  unnatural:  the  gun  was 
bleeding  at  the  mouth!  In  temporary  default 
of  water,  the  man  sponging  had  dipped  his 
sponge  into  a  pool  of  comrade's  blood.  In  all 
this  work  there  was  no  clashing;  the  duty  of 
the  instant  was  obvious.  When  one  fell,  an- 
other, looking  a  trifle  cleaner,  seemed  to  rise 
from  the  earth  in  the  dead  man's  tracks,  to  fall 
in  his  turn. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       117 

With  the  ruined  guns  lay  the  ruined  men — 
alongside  the  wreckage,  under  it  and  atop  of 
it;  and  back  down  the  road — a  ghastly  pro- 
cession!— crept  on  hands  and  knees  such  of  the 
wounded  as  were  able  to  move.  The  colonel 
— he  had  compassionately  sent  his  cavalcade 
to  the  right  about — had  to  ride  over  those  who 
were  entirely  dead  in  order  not  to  crush  those 
who  were  partly  alive.  Into  that  hell  he  tran- 
quilly held  his  way,  rode  up  alongside  the 
gun,  and,  in  the  obscurity  of  the  last  discharge, 
tapped  upon  the  cheek  the  man  holding  the 
rammer — who  straightway  fell,  thinking  him- 
self killed.  A  fiend  seven  times  damned 
sprang  out  of  the  smoke  to  take  his  place,  but 
paused  and  gazed  up  at  the  mounted  officer 
with  an  unearthly  regard,  his  teeth  flashing 
between  his  black  lips,  his  eyes,  fierce  and 
expanded,  burning  like  coals  beneath  his 
bloody  brow.  The  colonel  made  an  author- 
itative gesture  and  pointed  to  the  rear.  The 
fiend  bowed  in  token  of  obedience.  It  was 
Captain  Coulter. 

Simultaneously  with  the  colonel's  arresting 
sign,  silence  fell  upon  the  whole  field  of  action. 
The  procession  of  missiles  no  longer  streamed 
into  that  defile  of  death,  for  the  enemy  also  had 
ceased  firing.  His  army  had  been  gone  for 


118    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

hours,  and  the  commander  of  his  rear-guard, 
who  had  held  his  position  perilously  long  in 
hope  to  silence  the  Federal  fire,  at  that  strange 
moment  had  silenced  his  own.  "  I  was  not 
aware  of  the  breadth  of  my  authority,"  said 
the  colonel  to  anybody,  riding  forward  to  the 
crest  to  see  what  had  really  happened. 

An  hour  later  his  brigade  was  in  bivouac 
on  the  enemy's  ground,  and  its  idlers  were 
examining,  with  something  of  awe,  as  the 
faithful  inspect  a  saint's  relics,  a  score  of 
straddling  dead  horses  and  three  disabled 
guns,  all  spiked.  The  fallen  men  had  been 
carried  away;  their  torn  and  broken  bodies 
would  have  given  too  great  satisfaction. 

Naturally,  the  colonel  established  himself 
and  his  military  family  in  the  plantation 
house.  It  was  somewhat  shattered,  but  it  was 
better  than  the  open  air.  The  furniture  was 
greatly  deranged  and  broken.  Walls  and 
ceilings  were  knocked  away  here  and  there, 
and  a  lingering  odor  of  powder  smoke  was 
everywhere.  The  beds,  the  closets  of  women's 
clothing,  the  cupboards  were  not  greatly  dam- 
aged. The  new  tenants  for  a  night  made 
themselves  comfortable,  and  the  virtual 
effacement  of  Coulter's  battery  supplied  them 
with  an  interesting  topic. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        119 

During  supper  an  orderly  of  the  escort 
showed  himself  into  the  dining-room  and 
asked  permission  to  speak  to  the  colonel. 

"What  is  it,  Barbour?"  said  that  officer 
pleasantly,  having  overheard  the  request. 

"  Colonel,  there  is  something  wrong  in  the 
cellar;  I  don't  know  what — somebody  there. 
I  was  down  there  rummaging  about." 

"  I  will  go  down  and  see,"  said  a  staff 
officer,  rising. 

"So  will  I,"  the  colonel  said;  "let  the 
others  remain.  Lead  on,  orderly." 

They  too*k  a  candle  from  the  table  and  de- 
scended the  cellar  stairs,  the  orderly  in  visi- 
ble trepidation.  The  candle  made  but  a 
feeble  light,  but  presently,  as  they  advanced, 
its  narrow  circle  of  illumination  revealed  a 
human  figure  seated  on  the  ground  against 
the  black  stone  wall  which  they  were  skirting, 
its  knees  elevated,  its  head  bowed  sharply  for- 
ward. The  face,  which  should  have  been 
seen  in  profile,  was  invisible,  for  the  man  was 
bent  so  far  forward  that  his  long  hair  con- 
cealed it;  and,  strange  to  relate,  the  beard,  of 
a  much  darker  hue,  fell  in  a  great  tangled 
mass  and  lay  along  the  ground  at  his  side. 
They  involuntarily  paused;  then  the  colonel, 
taking  the  candle  from  the  orderly's  shaking 


120    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

hand,  approached  the  man  and  attentively 
considered  him.  The  long  dark  beard  was 
the  hair  of  a  woman — dead.  The  dead 
woman  clasped  in  her  arms  a  dead  babe. 
Both  were  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  man, 
pressed  against  his  breast,  against  his  lips. 
There  was  blood  in  the  hair  of  the  woman; 
there  was  blood  in  the  hair  of  the  man.  A 
yard  away,  near  an  irregular  depression  in  the 
beaten  earth  which  formed  the  cellar's  floor — 
a  fresh  excavation  with  a  convex  bit  of  iron, 
having  jagged  edges,  visible  in  one  of  the 
sides — lay  an  infant's  foot.  The  colonel  held 
the  light  as  high  as  he  could.  The  floor  of 
the  room  above  was  broken  through,  the 
splinters  pointing  at  all  angles  downward. 
"This  casemate  is  not  bomb-proof,"  said  the 
colonel  gravely.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
his  summing  up  of  the  matter  had  any  levity 
in  it. 

They  stood  about  the  group  awhile  in 
silence;  the  staff  officer  was  thinking  of  his 
unfinished  supper,  the  orderly  of  what  might 
possibly  be  in  one  of  the  casks  on  the  other 
side  of  the  cellar.  Suddenly  the  man  whom 
they  had  thought  dead  raised  his  head  and 
gazed  tranquilly  into  their  faces.  His  com- 
plexion was  coal  black;  the  cheeks  were  ap- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       121 

patently  tattooed  in  irregular  sinuous  lines 
from  the  eyes  downward.  The  lips,  too,  were 
white,  like  those  of  a  stage  negro.  There 
was  blood  upon  his  forehead. 

The  staff  officer  drew  back  a  pace,  the  or- 
derly two  paces. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  my  man?  "  said 
the  colonel,  unmoved. 

"  This  house  belongs  to  me,  sir,"  was  the 
reply,  civilly  delivered. 

"To you?    Ah,  I  see!    And  these?" 

"  My  wife  and  child.     I  am  Captain  Coul- 


122    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


THE  COUP  DE  GRACE 

THE  fighting  had  been  hard  and  con- 
tinuous ;  that  was  attested  by  all  the 
senses.  The  very  taste  of  battle  was 
in  the  air.  All  was  now  over;  it  re- 
mained only  to  succor  the  wounded  and  bury 
the  dead — to  "  tidy  up  a  bit,"  as  the  humorist 
of  a  burial  squad  put  it.  A  good  deal  of 
"  tidying  up  "  was  required.  As  far  as  one 
could  see  through  the  forests,  among  the 
splintered  trees,  lay  wrecks  of  men  and  horses. 
Among  them  moved  the  stretcher-bearers, 
gathering  and  carrying  away  the  few  who 
showed  signs  of  life.  Most  of  the  wounded 
had  died  of  neglect  while  the  right  to  min- 
ister to  their  wants  was  in  dispute.  It  is  an 
army  regulation  that  the  wounded  must  wait; 
the  best  way  to  care  for  them  is  to  win  the 
battle.  It  must  be  confessed  that  victory  is  a 
distinct  advantage  to  a  man  requiring  atten- 
tion, but  many  do  not  live  to  avail  themselves 
of  it. 

The  dead  were  collected  in  groups  of  a 
dozen  or  a  score  and  laid  side  by  side  in  rows 
while  the  trenches  were  dug  to  receive  them. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        123 

Some,  found  at  too  great  a  distance  from  these 
rallying  points,  were  buried  where  they  lay. 
There  was  little  attempt  at  identification, 
though  in  most  cases,  the  burial  parties  being 
detailed  to  glean  the  same  ground  which  they 
had  assisted  to  reap,  the  names  of  the  victor- 
ious dead  were  known  and  listed.  The 
enemy's  fallen  had  to  be  content  with  count- 
ing. But  of  that  they  got  enough:  many  of 
them  were  counted  several  times,  and  the 
total,  as  given  afterward  in  the  official  report 
of  the  victorious  commander,  denoted  rather 
a  hope  than  a  result. 

At  some  little  distance  from  the  spot  where 
one  of  the  burial  parties  had  established  its 
"  bivouac  of  the  dead,"  a  man  in  the  uniform 
of  a  Federal  officer  stood  leaning  against  a 
tree.  From  his  feet  upward  to  his  neck  his 
attitude  was  that  of  weariness  reposing;  but 
he  turned  his  head  uneasily  from  side  to  side; 
his  mind  was  apparently  not  at  rest.  He  was 
perhaps  uncertain  in  which  direction  to  go; 
he  was  not  likely  to  remain  long  where  he  was, 
for  already  the  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
straggled  redly  through  the  open  spaces  of  the 
wood  and  the  weary  soldiers  were  quitting 
their  task  for  the  day.  He  would  hardly 
make  a  night  of  it  alone  there  among  the  dead. 


124    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Nine  men  in  ten  whom  you  meet  after  a  battle 
inquire  the  way  to  some  fraction  of  the  army 
— as  if  any  one  could  know.  Doubtless  this 
officer  was  lost.  After  resting  himself  a  mo- 
ment he  would  presumably  follow  one  of  the 
retiring  burial  squads. 

When  all  were  gone  he  walked  straight 
away  into  the  forest  toward  the  red  west,  its 
light  staining  his  face  like  blood.  The  air  of 
confidence  with  which  he  now  strode  along 
showed  that  he  was  on  familiar  ground;  he 
had  recovered  his  bearings.  The  dead  on  his 
right  and  on  his  left  were  unregarded  as  he 
passed.  An  occasional  low  moan  from  some 
sorely-stricken  wretch  whom  the  relief -parties 
had  not  reached,  and  who  would  have  to  pass 
a  comfortless  night  beneath  the  stars  with  his 
thirst  to  keep  him  company,  was  equally  un- 
heeded. What,  indeed,  could  the  officer  have 
done,  being  no  surgeon  and  having  no  water? 

At  the  head  of  a  shallow  ravine,  a  mere 
depression  of  the  ground,  lay  a  small  group  of 
bodies.  He  saw,  and  swerving  suddenly  from 
his  course  walked  rapidly  toward  them. 
Scanning  each  one  sharply  as  he  passed,  he 
stopped  at  last  above  one  which  lay  at  a  slight 
remove  from  the  others,  near  a  clump  of  small 
trees.  He  looked  at  it  narrowly.  It  seemed 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        125 

to  stir.     He  stooped  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
its  face.     It  screamed. 

The  officer  was  Captain  Downing  Mad- 
well,  of  a  Massachusetts  regiment  of  infantry, 
a  daring  and  intelligent  soldier,  an  honorable 
man. 

In  the  regiment  were  two  brothers  named 
Halcrow — CafTal  and  Creede  Halcrow.  Caf- 
fal  Halcrow  was  a  sergeant  in  Captain  Mad- 
well's  company,  and  these  two  men,  the 
sergeant  and  the  captain,  were  devoted 
friends.  In  so  far  as  disparity  of  rank,  differ- 
ence in  duties  and  considerations  of  military 
discipline  would  permit  they  were  commonly 
together.  They  had,  indeed,  grown  up  to- 
gether from  childhood.  A  habit  of  the  heart 
is  not  easily  broken  off.  Caffal  Halcrow  had 
nothing  military  in  his  taste  nor  disposition, 
but  the  thought  of  separation  from  his  friend 
was  disagreeable;  he  enlisted  in  the  company 
in  which  Madwell  was  second-lieutenant. 
Each  had  taken  two  steps  upward  in  rank,  but 
between  the  highest  non-commissioned  and  the 
lowest  commissioned  officer  the  gulf  is  deep 
and  wide  and  the  old  relation  was  maintained 
with  difficulty  and  a  difference. 

Creede  Halcrow,  the  brother  of  Caffal,  was 


126    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  major  of  the  regiment — a  cynical,  saturn- 
ine man,  between  whom  and  Captain  Mad- 
well  there  was  a  natural  antipathy  which  cir- 
cumstances had  nourished  and  strengthened 
to  an  active  animosity.  But  for  the  restrain- 
ing influence  of  their  mutual  relation  to  Caffal 
these  two  patriots  would  doubtless  have  en- 
deavored to  deprive  their  country  of  each 
other's  services. 

At  the  opening  of  the  battle  that  morning 
the  regiment  was  performing  outpost  duty  a 
mile  away  from  the  main  army.  It  was  at- 
tacked and  nearly  surrounded  in  the  forest, 
but  stubbornly  held  its  ground.  During  a 
lull  in  the  fighting,  Major  Halcrow  came 
to  Captain  Madwell.  The  two  exchanged 
formal  salutes,  and  the  major  said :  "  Cap- 
tain, the  colonel  directs  that  you  push  your 
company  to  the  head  of  this  ravine  and  hold 
your  place  there  until  recalled.  I  need 
hardly  apprise  you  of  the  dangerous  charac- 
ter of  the  movement,  but  if  you  wish,  you 
can,  I  suppose,  turn  over  the  command  to  your 
first-lieutenant.  I  was  not,  however,  directed 
to  authorize  the  substitution;  it  is  merely  a 
suggestion  of  my  own,  unofficially  made." 

To  this  deadly  insult  Captain  Madwell 
coolly  replied : 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       127 

"  Sir,  I  invite  you  to  accompany  the  move- 
ment. A  mounted  officer  would  be  a  con- 
spicuous mark,  and  I  have  long  held  the 
opinion  that  it  would  be  better  if  you  were 
dead." 

The  art  of  repartee  was  cultivated  in  mili- 
tary circles  as  early  as  1862. 

A  half-hour  later  Captain  Madwell's  com- 
pany was  driven  from  its  position  at  the  head 
of  the  ravine,  with  a  loss  of  one-third  its  num- 
ber. Among  the  fallen  was  Sergeant  Hal- 
crow.  The  regiment  was  soon  afterward 
forced  back  to  the  main  line,  and  at  the  close 
of  the  battle  was  miles  away.  The  captain 
was  now  standing  at  the  side  of  his  subordi- 
nate and  friend. 

Sergeant  Halcrow  was  mortally  hurt.  His 
clothing  was  deranged ;  it  seemed  to  have  been 
violently  torn  apart,  exposing  the  abdomen. 
Some  of  the  buttons  of  his  jacket  had  been 
pulled  off  and  lay  on  the  ground  beside  him 
and  fragments  of  his  other  garments  were 
strewn  about.  His  leather  belt  was  parted 
and  had  apparently  been  dragged  from  be- 
neath him  as  he  lay.  There  had  been  no  great 
effusion  of  blood.  The  only  visible  wound 
was  a  wide,  ragged  opening  in  the  abdomen. 


128    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

It  was  defiled  with  earth  and  dead  leaves. 
Protruding  from  it  was  a  loop  of  small  in- 
testine. In  all  his  experience  Captain  Mad- 
well  had  not  seen  a  wound  like  this.  He 
could  neither  conjecture  how  it  was  made  nor 
explain  the  attendant  circumstances — the 
strangely  torn  clothing,  the  parted  belt,  the 
besmirching  of  the  white  skin.  He  knelt  and 
made  a  closer  examination.  When  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  he  turned  his  eyes  in  different  direc- 
tions as  if  looking  for  an  enemy.  Fifty  yards 
away,  on  the  crest  of  a  low,  thinly  wooded 
hill,  he  saw  several  dark  objects  moving  about 
among  the  fallen  men — a  herd  of  swine.  One 
Stood  with  its  back  to  him,  its  shoulders 
sharply  elevated.  Its  forefeet  were  upon  a 
human  body,  its  head  was  depressed  and  in- 
visible. The  bristly  ridge  of  its  chine 
showed  black  against  the  red  west.  Captain 
Madwell  drew  away  his  eyes  and  fixed  them 
again  upon  the  thing  which  had  been  his 
friend. 

The  man  who  had  suffered  these  monstrous 
mutilations  was  alive.  At  intervals  he  moved 
his  limbs;  he  moaned  at  every  breath.  He 
stared  blankly  into  the  face  of  his  friend  and 
if  touched  screamed.  In  his  giant  agony  he 
had  torn  up  the  ground  on  which  he  lay;  his 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        129 

clenched  hands  were  full  of  leaves  and  twigs 
and  earth.  Articulate  speech  was  beyond  his 
power;  it  was  impossible  to  know  if  he  were 
sensible  to  anything  but  pain.  The  expres- 
sion of  his  face  was  an  appeal ;  his  eyes  were 
full  of  prayer.  For  what? 

There  was  no  misreading  that  look;  the 
captain  had  too  frequently  seen  it  in  eyes 
of  those  whose  lips  had  still  the  power  to 
formulate  it  by  an  entreaty  for  death.  Con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  this  writhing  frag- 
ment of  humanity,  this  type  and  example  of 
acute  sensation,  this  handiwork  of  man  and 
beast,  this  humble,  unheroic  Prometheus,  was 
imploring  everything,  all,  the  whole  non-ego, 
for  the  boon  of  oblivion.  To  the  earth  and 
the  sky  alike,  to  the  trees,  to  the  man,  to  what- 
ever took  form  in  sense  or  consciousness,  this 
incarnate  suffering  addressed  that  silent  plea. 

For  what,  indeed?  For  that  which  we  ac- 
cord to  even  the  meanest  creature  without 
sense  to  demand  it,  denying  it  only  to  the 
wretched  of  our  own  race:  for  the  blessed  re- 
lease, the  rite  of  uttermost  compassion,  the 
coup  de  grace. 

Captain  Madwell  spoke  the  name  of  his 
friend.  He  repeated  it  over  and  over  with- 
out effect  until  emotion  choked  his  utterance. 


130    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

His  tears  plashed  upon  the  livid  face  beneath 
his  own  and  blinded  himself.  He  saw  no- 
thing but  a  blurred  and  moving  object,  but 
the  moans  were  more  distinct  than  ever,  inter- 
rupted at  briefer  intervals  by  sharper  shrieks. 
He  turned  away,  struck  his  hand  upon  his 
forehead,  and  strode  from  the  spot.  The 
swine,  catching  sight  of  him,  threw  up  their 
crimson  muzzles,  regarding  him  suspiciously 
a  second,  and  then  with  a  gruff,  concerted 
grunt,  raced  away  out  of  sight.  A  horse,  its 
foreleg  splintered  by  a  cannon-shot,  lifted  its 
head  sidewise  from  the  ground  and  neighed 
piteously.  Madwell  stepped  forward,  drew 
his  revolver  and  shot  the  poor  beast  between 
the  eyes,  narrowly  observing  its  death- 
struggle,  which,  contrary  to  his  expectation, 
was  violent  and  long;  but  at  last  it  lay  still. 
The  tense  muscles  of  its  lips,  which  had  un- 
covered the  teeth  in  a  horrible  grin,  relaxed ; 
the  sharp,  clean-cut  profile  took  on  a  look  of 
profound  peace  and  rest 

Along  the  distant,  thinly  wooded  crest  to 
westward  the  fringe  of  sunset  fire  had  now 
nearly  burned  itself  out.  The  light  upon  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  had  faded  to  a  tender  gray; 
shadows  were  in  their  tops,  like  great  dark 
birds  aperch.  Night  was  coming  and  there 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        131 

were  miles  of  haunted  forest  between  Captain 
Madwell  and  camp.  Yet  he  stood  there  at 
the  side  of  the  dead  animal,  apparently  lost  to 
all  sense  of  his  surroundings.  His  eyes  were 
bent  upon  the  earth  at  his  feet;  his  left  hand 
hung  loosely  at  his  side,  his  right  still  held  the 
pistol.  Presently  he  lifted  his  face,  turned  it 
toward  his  dying  friend  and  walked  rapidly 
back  to  his  side.  He  knelt  upon  one  knee, 
cocked  the  weapon,  placed  the  muzzle  against 
the  man's  forehead,  and  turning  away  his  eyes 
pulled  the  trigger.  There  was  no  report.  He 
had  used  his  last  cartridge  for  the  horse. 

The  sufferer  moaned  and  his  lips  moved 
convulsively.  The  froth  that  ran  from  them 
had  a  tinge  of  blood. 

Captain  Madwell  rose  to  his  feet  and  drew 
his  sword  from  the  scabbard.  He  passed  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  along  the  edge  from 
hilt  to  point.  He  held  it  out  straight  before 
him,  as  if  to  test  his  nerves.  There  was  no 
visible  tremor  of  the  blade;  the  ray  of  bleak 
skylight  that  it  reflected  was  steady  and  true. 
He  stooped  and  with  his  left  hand  tore  away 
the  dying  man's  shirt,  rose  and  placed  the 
point  of  the  sword  just  over  the  heart.  This 
time  he  did  not  withdraw  his  eyes.  Grasping 
the  hilt  with  both  hands,  he  thrust  downward 


132    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

with  all  his  strength  and  weight.  The  blade 
sank  into  the  man's  body — through  his  body 
into  the  earth;  Captain  Madwell  came  near 
falling  forward  upon  his  work.  The  dying 
man  drew  up  his  knees  and  at  the  same  time 
threw  his  right  arm  across  his  breast  and 
grasped  the  steel  so  tightly  that  the  knuckles 
of  the  hand  visibly  whitened.  By  a  violent 
but  vain  effort  to  withdraw  the  blade  the 
wound  was  enlarged ;  a  rill  of  blood  escaped, 
running  sinuously  down  into  the  deranged 
clothing.  At  that  moment  three  men  stepped 
silently  forward  from  behind  the  clump  of 
young  trees  which  had  concealed  their  ap- 
proach. Two  were  hospital  attendants  and 
carried  a  stretcher. 
The  third  was  Major  Creede  Halcrow. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       133 


p 


son." 


PARKER  ADDERSON, 
PHILOSOPHER 

RISONER,  what  is  your  name?" 

"As  I  am  to  lose  it  at  daylight  to- 
morrow morning  it  is  hardly  worth 
while  concealing  it.  Parker  Adder- 


"Your  rank?" 

"A  somewhat  humble  one;  commissioned 
officers  are  too  precious  to  be  risked  in  the 
perilous  business  of  a  spy.  I  am  a  sergeant." 

"Of  what  regiment?" 

"You  must  excuse  me;  my  answer  might, 
for  anything  I  know,  give  you  an  idea  of 
whose  forces  are  in  your  front.  Such  know- 
ledge as  that  is  what  I  came  into  your  lines  to 
obtain,  not  to  impart." 

"  You  are  not  without  wit." 

"  If  you  have  the  patience  to  wait  you  will 
find  me  dull  enough  to-morrow." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  you  are  to  die  to- 
morrow morning?" 

"  Among  spies  captured  by  night  that  is  the 
custom.  It  is  one  of  the  nice  observances  of 
the  profession." 


134    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  general  so  far  laid  aside  the  dignity 
appropriate  to  a  Confederate  officer  of  high 
rank  and  wide  renown  as  to  smile.  But  no 
one  in  his  power  and  out  of  his  favor  would 
have  drawn  any  happy  augury  from  that  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  of  approval.  It  was 
neither  genial  nor  infectious;  it  did  not  com- 
municate itself  to  the  other  persons  exposed  to 
it — the  caught  spy  who  had  provoked  it  and 
the  armed  guard  who  had  brought  him  into 
the  tent  and  now  stood  a  little  apart,  watching 
his  prisoner  in  the  yellow  candle-light.  It 
was  no  part  of  that  warrior's  duty  to  smile;  he 
had  been  detailed  for  another  purpose.  The 
conversation  was  resumed ;  it  was  in  character 
a  trial  for  a  capital  offense. 

"You  admit,  then,  that  you  are  a  spy — < 
that  you  came  into  my  camp,  disguised  as 
you  are  in  the  uniform  of  a  Confederate  sol- 
dier, to  obtain  information  secretly  regard- 
ing the  numbers  and  disposition  of  my 
troops." 

"Regarding,  particularly,  their  numbers. 
Their  disposition  I  already  knew.  It  is 
morose." 

The  general  brightened  again;  the  guard, 
with  a  severer  sense  of  his  responsibility,  ac- 
centuated the  austerity  of  his  expression  and 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       135 

stood  a  trifle  more  r  ect  than  before.  Twirl- 
ing his  gray  slouch  hat  round  and  round  upon 
his  forefinger,  the  spy  took  a  leisurely  survey 
of  his  surroundings.  They  were  simple 
enough.  The  tent  was  a  common  "wall 
tent,"  about  eight  feet  by  ten  in  dimensions, 
lighted  by  a  single  tallow  candle  stuck  into 
the  haft  of  a  bayonet,  which  was  itself  stuck 
into  a  pine  table  at  which  the  general  sat,  now 
busily  writing  and  apparently  forgetful  of  his 
unwilling  guest.  An  old  rag  carpet  covered 
the  earthen  floor;  an  older  leather  trunk,  a 
second  chair  and  a  roll  of  blankets  were  about 
all  else  that  the  tent  contained;  in  General 
Clavering's  command  Confederate  simplicity 
and  penury  of  " pomp  and  circumstance"  had 
attained  their  highest  development.  On  a 
large  nail  driven  into  the  tent  pole  at  the  en- 
trance was  suspended  a  sword-belt  supporting 
a  long  sabre,  a  pistol  in  its  holster  and,  ab- 
surdly enough,  a  bowie-knife.  Of  that  most 
unmilitary  weapon  it  was  the  general's  habit 
to  explain  that  it  was  a  souvenir  of  the  peace- 
ful days  when  he  was  a  civilian. 

It  was  a  stormy  night.  The  rain  cascaded 
upon  the  canvas  in  torrents,  with  the  dull, 
drum-like  sound  familiar  to  dwellers  in  tents. 
As  the  whooping  blasts  charged  upon  it  the 


136    THE   COLLECT  iD   WORKS 

frail  structure  shook  and  wayed  and  strained 
at  its  confining  stakes  and.  ropes. 

The  general  finished  writing,  folded  the 
half-sheet  of  paper  and  spoke  to  the  soldier 
guarding  Adderson :  "  Here,  Tassman,  take 
that  to  the  adjutant-general ;  then  return." 

"And  the  prisoner,  General?"  said  the 
soldier,  saluting,  with  an  inquiring  glance  in 
the  direction  of  that  unfortunate. 

"  Do  as  I  said,"  replied  the  officer,  curtly. 

The  soldier  took  the  note  and  ducked 
himself  out  of  the  tent.  General  Clavering 
turned  his  handsome  face  toward  the  Federal 
spy,  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  not  unkindly,  and 
said:  "  It  is  a  bad  night,  my  man." 

"  For  me,  yes." 

"  Do  you  guess  what  I  have  written?" 

"  Something  worth  reading,  I  dare  say. 
And — perhaps  it  is  my  vanity — I  venture  to 
suppose  that  I  am  mentioned  in  it." 

"Yes;  it  is  a  memorandum  for  an  order  to 
be  read  to  the  troops  at  reveille  concerning 
your  execution.  Also  some  notes  for  the 
guidance  of  the  provost-marshal  in  arranging 
the  details  of  that  event." 

"I  hope,  General,  the  spectacle  will  be  in- 
telligently arranged,  for  I  shall  attend  it  my- 
self." " 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        137 

"  Have  you  any  arrangements  of  your  own 
that  you  wish  to  make?  Do  you  wish  to  see  a 
chaplain,  for  example?" 

"I  could  hardly  secure  a  longer  rest  for 
myself  by  depriving  him  of  some  of  his." 

"Good  God,  man!  do  you  mean  to  go  to 
your  death  with  nothing  but  jokes  upon  your 
lips?  Do  you  know  that  this  is  a  serious  mat- 
ter?" 

"  How  can  I  know  that?  I  have  never 
been  dead  in  all  my  life.  I  have  heard  that 
death  is  a  serious  matter,  but  never  from  any 
of  those  who  have  experienced  it." 

The  general  was  silent  for  a  moment;  the 
man  interested,  perhaps  amused  him — a  type 
not  previously  encountered. 

"  Death,"  he  said,  "  is  at  least  a  loss — a  loss 
of  such  happiness  as  we  have,  and  of  oppor- 
tunities for  more." 

"A  loss  of  which  we  shall  never  be  con- 
scious can  be  borne  with  composure  and  there- 
fore expected  without  apprehension.  You 
must  have  observed,  General,  that  of  all  the 
dead  men  with  whom  it  is  your  soldierly 
pleasure  to  strew  your  path  none  shows  signs 
of  regret." 

"  If  the  being  dead  is  not  a  regrettable  con- 
dition, yet  the  becoming  so — the  act  of  dying 


138    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

• — appears  to  be  distinctly  disagreeable  to  one 
who  has  not  lost  the  power  to  feel." 

"Pain  is  disagreeable,  no  doubt.  I  never 
suffer  it  without  more  or  less  discomfort.  But 
he  who  lives  longest  is  most  exposed  to  it. 
What  you  call  dying  is  simply  the  last  pain — 
there  is  really  no  such  thing  as  dying.  Sup- 
pose, for  illustration,  that  I  attempt  to  escape. 
You  lift  the  revolver  that  you  are  courteously 
concealing  in  your  lap,  and " 

The  general  blushed  like  a  girl,  then 
laughed  softly,  disclosing  his  brilliant  teeth, 
made  a  slight  inclination  of  his  handsome 
head  and  said  nothing.  The  spy  continued: 
"  You  fire,  and  I  have  in  my  stomach  what  I 
did  not  swallow.  I  fall,  but  am  not  dead. 
After  a  half-hour  of  agony  I  am  dead.  But 
at  any  given  instant  of  that  half-hour  I  was 
either  alive  or  dead.  There  is  no  transition 
period. 

"When  I  am  hanged  to-morrow  morning 
it  will  be  quite  the  same;  while  conscious  I 
shall  be  living;  when  dead,  unconscious. 
Nature  appears  to  have  ordered  the  matter 
quite  in  my  interest — the  way  that  I  should 
have  ordered  it  myself.  It  is  so  simple,"  he 
added  with  a  smile,  "that  it  seems  hardly 
worth  while  to  be  hanged  at  all." 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       139 

At  the  finish  of  his  remarks  there  was  a 
long  silence.  The  general  sat  impassive, 
looking  into  the  man's  face,  but  apparently  not 
attentive  to  what  had  been  said.  It  was  as 
if  his  eyes  had  mounted  guard  over  the 
prisoner  while  his  mind  concerned  itself  with 
other  matters.  Presently  he  drew  a  long, 
deep  breath,  shuddered,  as  one  awakened  from 
a  dreadful  dream,  and  exclaimed  almost  in- 
audibly:  "Death  is  horrible!" — this  man  of 
death. 

"  It  was  horrible  to  our  savage  ancestors," 
said  the  spy,  gravely,  "  because  they  had  not 
enough  intelligence  to  dissociate  the  idea  of 
consciousness  from  the  idea  of  the  physical 
forms  in  which  it  is  manifested — as  an  even 
lower  order  of  intelligence,  that  of  the 
monkey,  for  example,  may  be  unable  to 
imagine  a  house  without  inhabitants,  and  see- 
ing a  ruined  hut  fancies  a  suffering  occupant. 
To  us  it  is  horrible  because  we  have  inherited 
the  tendency  to  think  it  so,  accounting  for  the 
notion  by  wild  and  fanciful  theories  of  an- 
other world — as  names  of  places  give  rise  to 
legends  explaining  them  and  reasonless  con- 
duct to  philosophies  in  justification.  You  can 
hang  me,  General,  but  there  your  power  of 
evil  ends ;  you  cannot  condemn  me  to  heaven." 


140    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  general  appeared  not  to  have  heard; 
the  spy's  talk  had  merely  turned  his  thoughts 
into  an  unfamiliar  channel,  but  there  they 
pursued  their  will  independently  to  conclu- 
sions of  their  own.  The  storm  had  ceased, 
and  something  of  the  solemn  spirit  of  the 
night  had  imparted  itself  to  his  reflections, 
giving  them  the  sombre  tinge  of  a  super- 
natural dread.  Perhaps  there  was  an  element 
of  prescience  in  it.  "  I  should  not  like  to  die," 
he  said — "not  to-night." 

He  was  interrupted — if,  indeed,  he  had  in- 
tended to  speak  further — by  the  entrance  of 
an  officer  of  his  staff,  Captain  Hasterlick,  the 
provost-marshal.  This  recalled  him  to  him- 
self; the  absent  look  passed  away  from  his 
face. 

"Captain,"  he  said,  acknowledging  the 
officer's  salute,  "  this  man  is  a  Yankee  spy  cap- 
tured inside  our  lines  with  incriminating 
papers  on  him.  He  has  confessed.  How  is 
the  weather?" 

"The  storm  is  over,  sir,  and  the  moon  shin- 
ing." 

"Good;  take  a  file  of  men,  conduct  him 
at  once  to  the  parade  ground,  and  shoot 
him." 

A  sharp  cry  broke  from  the  spy's  lips.     He 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        141 

threw  himself  forward,  thrust  out  his  neck,  ex- 
panded his  eyes,  clenched  his  hands. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  almost 
inarticulately;  "you  do  not  mean  that!  You 
forget — I  am  not  to  die  until  morning." 

"  I  have  said  nothing  of  morning,"  replied 
the  general,  coldly ;  "  that  was  an  assumption 
of  your  own.  You  die  now." 

"  But,  General,  I  beg — I  implore  you  to  re- 
member; I  am  to  hang!  It  will  take  some 
time  to  erect  the  gallows — two  hours — an 
hour.  Spies  are  hanged;  I  have  rights  under 
military  law.  For  Heaven's  sake,  General, 
consider  how  short " 

"  Captain,  observe  my  directions." 

The  officer  drew  his  sword  and  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  the  prisoner  pointed  silently  to  the 
opening  of  the  tent.  The  prisoner  hesitated ; 
the  officer  grasped  him  by  the  collar  and 
pushed  him  gently  forward.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  tent  pole  the  frantic  man  sprang 
to  it  and  with  cat-like  agility  seized  the  handle 
of  the  bowie-knife,  plucked  the  weapon  from 
the  scabbard  and  thrusting  the  captain  aside 
leaped  upon  the  general  with  the  fury  of  a 
madman,  hurling  him  to  the  ground  and  fall- 
ing headlong  upon  him  as  he  lay.  The  table 
was  overturned,  the  candle  extinguished  and 


142    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

they  fought  blindly  in  the  darkness.  The 
provost-marshal  sprang  to  the  assistance  of  his 
superior  officer  and  was  himself  prostrated 
upon  the  struggling  forms.  Curses  and  inar- 
ticulate cries  of  rage  and  pain  came  from  the 
welter  of  limbs  and  bodies;  the  tent  came 
down  upon  them  and  beneath  its  hampering 
and  enveloping  folds  the  struggle  went  on. 
Private  Tassman,  returning  from  his  errand 
and  dimly  conjecturing  the  situation,  threw 
down  his  rifle  and  laying  hold  of  the  flounc- 
ing canvas  at  random  vainly  tried  to  drag  it 
off  the  men  under  it;  and  the  sentinel  who 
paced  up  and  down  in  front,  not  daring  to 
leave  his  beat  though  the  skies  should  fall, 
discharged  his  rifle.  The  report  alarmed 
the  camp ;  drums  beat  the  long  roll  and  bugles 
sounded  the  assembly,  bringing  swarms  of 
half-clad  men  into  the  moonlight,  dressing 
as  they  ran,  and  falling  into  line  at  the  sharp 
commands  of  their  officers.  This  was  well; 
being  in  line  the  men  were  under  control ;  they 
stood  at  arms  while  the  general's  staff  and  the 
men  of  his  escort  brought  order  out  of  con- 
fusion by  lifting  off  the  fallen  tent  and  pulling 
apart  the  breathless  and  bleeding  actors  in  that 
strange  contention. 
Breathless,  indeed,  was  one :  the  captain  was 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       143 

dead;  the  handle  of  the  bowie-knife,  protrud- 
ing from  his  throat,  was  pressed  back  beneath 
his  chin  until  the  end  had  caught  in  the  angle 
of  the  jaw  and  the  hand  that  delivered  the 
blow  had  been  unable  to  remove  the  weapon. 
In  the  dead  man's  hand  was  his  sword, 
clenched  with  a  grip  that  defied  the  strength 
of  the  living.  Its  blade  was  streaked  with  red 
to  the  hilt. 

Lifted  to  his  feet,  the  general  sank  back  to 
the  earth  with  a  moan  and  fainted.  Besides 
his  bruises  he  had  two  sword-thrusts — one 
through  the  thigh,  the  other  through  the 
shoulder. 

The  spy  had  suffered  the  least  damage. 
Apart  from  a  broken  right  arm,  his  wounds 
were  such  only  as  might  have  been  incurred 
in  an  ordinary  combat  with  nature's  weapons. 
But  he  was  dazed  and  seemed  hardly  to  know 
what  had  occurred.  He  shrank  away  from 
those  attending  him,  cowered  upon  the  ground 
and  uttered  unintelligible  remonstrances. 
His  face,  swollen  by  blows  and  stained  with 
gouts  of  blood,  nevertheless  showed  white  be- 
neath his  disheveled  hair — as  white  as  that  of 
a  corpse. 

"  The  man  is  not  insane,"  said  the  surgeon, 
preparing  bandages  and  replying  to  a  ques- 


144,    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

tion ;  "  he  is  suffering  from  fright.  Who  and 
what  is  he?" 

Private  Tassman  began  to  explain.  It  was 
the  opportunity  of  his  life;  he  omitted  no- 
thing that  could  in  any  way  accentuate  the 
importance  of  his  own  relation  to  the  night's 
events.  When  he  had  finished  his  story  and 
was  ready  to  begin  it  again  nobody  gave  him 
any  attention. 

The  general  had  now  recovered  conscious- 
ness. He  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow, 
looked  about  him,  and,  seeing  the  spy  crouch- 
ing by  a  camp-fire,  guarded,  said  simply: 

"Take  that  man  to  the  parade  ground  and 
shoot  him." 

"  The  general's  mind  wanders,"  said  an  of- 
ficer standing  near. 

"  His  mind  does  not  wander,"  the  adjutant- 
general  said.  "  I  have  a  memorandum  from 
him  about  this  business;  he  had  given  that 
same  order  to  Hasterlick" — with  a  motion  of 
the  hand  toward  the  dead  provost-marshal — 
"  and,  by  God!  it  shall  be  executed." 

Ten  minutes  later  Sergeant  Parker  Adder- 
son,  of  the  Federal  army,  philosopher  and  wit, 
kneeling  in  the  moonlight  and  begging  in- 
coherently for  his  life,  was  shot  to  death  by 
twenty  men.  As  the  volley  rang  out  upon  the 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       145 

keen  air  of  the  midnight,  General  Clavering, 
lying  white  and  still  in  the  red  glow  of  the 
camp-fire,  opened  his  big  blue  eyes,  looked 
pleasantly  upon  those  about  him  and  said: 
"How  silent  it  all  is!" 

The  surgeon  looked  at  the  adjutant-general, 
gravely  and  significantly.  The  patient's  eyes 
slowly  closed,  and  thus  he  lay  for  a  few 
moments ;  then,  his  face  suffused  with  a  smile 
of  ineffable  sweetness,  he  said,  faintly:  "I 
suppose  this  must  be  death,"  and  so  passed 
away. 


146    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  OUTPOSTS 

I 
CONCERNING  THE  WISH  TO  BE  DEAD 

TWO  men  sat  in  conversation.    One 
was  the  Governor  of  the  State.  The 
year  was  1861 ;  the  war  was  on  and 
the  Governor  already  famous  for 
the  intelligence  and  zeal  with  which  he  di- 
rected all  the  powers  and  resources  of  his 
State  to  the  service  of  the  Union. 

"What!  you?"  the  Governor  was  saying  in 
evident  surprise — "  you  too  want  a  military 
commission?  Really,  the  fifing  and  drumm- 
ing must  have  effected  a  profound  alteration 
in  your  convictions.  In  my  character  of  re- 
cruiting sergeant  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  be 
fastidious,  but" — there  was  a  touch  of  irony 
in  his  manner — "well,  have  you  forgotten 
that  an  oath  of  allegiance  is  required?" 

"  I  have  altered  neither  my  convictions  nor 
my  sympathies,"  said  the  other,  tranquilly. 
"  While  my  sympathies  are  with  the  South,  as 
you  do  me  the  honor  to  recollect,  I  have  never 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        147 

doubted  that  the  North  was  in  the  right.  I 
am  a  Southerner  in  fact  and  in  feeling,  but  it 
is  my  habit  in  matters  of  importance  to  act  as 
I  think,  not  as  I  feel." 

The  Governor  was  absently  tapping  his  desk 
with  a  pencil ;  he  did  not  immediately  reply. 
After  a  while  he  said:  "I  have  heard  that 
there  are  all  kinds  of  men  in  the  world,  so  I 
suppose  there  are  some  like  that,  and  doubt- 
less you  think  yourself  one.  I've  known 
you  a  long  time  and — pardon  me — I  don't 
think  so." 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand  that  my  applica- 
tion is  denied?" 

"  Unless  you  can  remove  my  belief  that 
your  Southern  sympathies  are  in  some  de- 
gree a  disqualification,  yes.  I  do  not  doubt 
your  good  faith,  and  I  know  you  to  be  abun- 
dantly fitted  by  intelligence  and  special  train- 
ing for  the  duties  of  an  officer.  Your  convic- 
tions, you  say,  favor  the  Union  cause,  but  I 
prefer  a  man  with  his  heart  in  it.  The  heart 
is  what  men  fight  with." 

"  Look  here,  Governor,"  said  the  younger 
man,  with  a  smile  that  had  more  light  than 
warmth :  "  I  have  something  up  my  sleeve— 
a  qualification  which  I  had  hoped  it  would 
not  be  necessary  to  mention.  A  great  military 


148    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

authority  has  given  a  simple  recipe  for  being 
a  good  soldier:  'Try  always  to  get  yourself 
killed.'  It  is  with  that  purpose  that  I  wish  to 
enter  the  service.  I  am  not,  perhaps,  much 
of  a  patriot,  but  I  wish  to  be  dead." 

The  Governor  looked  at  him  rather  sharply, 
then  a  little  coldly.  "  There  is  a  simpler  and 
franker  way,"  he  said. 

"In  my  family,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "we 
do  not  do  that — no  Armisted  has  ever  done 
that." 

A  long  silence  ensued  and  neither  man 
looked  at  the  other.  Presently  the  Governor 
lifted  his  eyes  from  the  pencil,  which  had 
resumed  its  tapping,  and  said: 

"Who  is  she?" 

"  My  wife." 

The  Governor  tossed  the  pencil  into  the 
desk,  rose  and  walked  two  or  three  times 
across  the  room.  Then  he  turned  to  Armisted, 
who  also  had  risen,  looked  at  him  more  coldly 
than  before  and  said :  "  But  the  man — would 
it  not  be  better  that  he — could  not  the  country 
spare  him  better  than  it  can  spare  you?  Or 
are  the  Armisteds  opposed  to  '  the  unwritten 
law'?" 

The  Armisteds,  apparently,  could  feel  an 
insult:  the  face  of  the  younger  man  flushed, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       149 

then  paled,  but  he  subdued  himself  to  the 
service  of  his  purpose. 

"  The  man's  identity  is  unknown  to  me,"  he 
said,  calmly  enough. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Governor,  with  even 
less  of  visible  contrition  than  commonly  un- 
derlies those  words.  After  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion he  added :  "  I  shall  send  you  to-morrow 
a  captain's  commission  in  the  Tenth  Infantry, 
now  at  Nashville,  Tennessee.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  sir.    I  thank  you." 

Left  alone,  the  Governor  remained  for  a 
time  motionless,  leaning  against  his  desk. 
Presently  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if 
throwing  off  a  burden.  "  This  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness," he  said. 

Seating  himself  at  a  reading-table  before 
the  fire,  he  took  up  the  book  nearest  his  hand, 
absently  opening  it.  His  eyes  fell  upon  this 
sentence : 

"  When  God  made  it  necessary  for  an  un- 
faithful wife  to  lie  about  her  husband  in  justi- 
fication of  her  own  sins  He  had  the  tender- 
ness to  endow  men  with  the  folly  to  believe 
her." 

He  looked  at  the  title  of  the  book;  it  was, 
His  Excellency  the  Fool. 

He  flung  the  volume  into  the  fire. 


150    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

II 
HOW  TO  SAY  WHAT  IS  WORTH  HEARING 

The  enemy,  defeated  in  two  days  of  battle 
at  Pittsburg  Landing,  had  sullenly  retired  to 
Corinth,  whence  he  had  come.  For  manifest 
incompetence  Grant,  whose  beaten  army  had 
been  saved  from  destruction  and  capture  by 
Buell's  soldierly  activity  and  skill,  had  been 
relieved  of  his  command,  which  nevertheless 
had  not  been  given  to  Buell,  but  to  Halleck, 
a  man  of  unproved  powers,  a  theorist,  slugg- 
ish, irresolute.  Foot  by  foot  his  troops, 
always  deployed  in  line-of-battle  to  resist  the 
enemy's  bickering  skirmishers,  always  en- 
trenching against  the  columns  that  never 
came,  advanced  across  the  thirty  miles  of 
forest  and  swamp  toward  an  antagonist  pre- 
pared to  vanish  at  contact,  like  a  ghost  at 
cock-crow.  It  was  a  campaign  of  "  excursions 
and  alarums,"  of  reconnoissances  and  counter- 
marches, of  cross-purposes  and  counter- 
manded orders.  For  weeks  the  solemn  farce 
held  attention,  luring  distinguished  civilians 
from  fields  of  political  ambition  to  see  what 
they  safely  could  of  the  horrors  of  war. 
Among  these  was  our  friend  the  Governor. 
At  the  headquarters  of  the  army  and  in  the 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        151 

camps  of  the  troops  from  his  State  he  was 
a  familiar  figure,  attended  by  the  several 
members  of  his  personal  staff,  showily  horsed, 
faultlessly  betailored  and  bravely  silk-hatted. 
Things  of  charm  they  were,  rich  in  sugges- 
tions of  peaceful  lands  beyond  a  sea  of  strife. 
The  bedraggled  soldier  looked  up  from  his 
trench  as  they  passed,  leaned  upon  his  spade 
and  audibly  damned  them  to  signify  his  sense 
of  their  ornamental  irrelevance  to  the  austeri- 
ties of  his  trade. 

"  I  think,  Governor,"  said  General  Master- 
son  one  day,  going  into  informal  session  atop 
of  his  horse  and  throwing  one  leg  across  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle,  his  favorite  posture — 
"  I  think  I  would  not  ride  any  farther  in  that 
direction  if  I  were  you.  We've  nothing  out 
there  but  a  line  of  skirmishers.  That,  I  pre- 
sume, is  why  I  was  directed  to  put  these  siege 
guns  here:  if  the  skirmishers  are  driven  in 
the  enemy  will  die  of  dejection  at  being  un- 
able to  haul  them  away — they're  a  trifle 
heavy." 

There  is  reason  to  fear  that  the  unstrained 
quality  of  this  military  humor  dropped  not  as 
the  gentle  rain  from  heaven  upon  the  place 
beneath  the  civilian's  silk  hat.  Anyhow  he 
abated  none  of  his  dignity  in  recognition. 


152    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  gravely,  "that 
some  of  my  men  are  out  there — a  company 
of  the  Tenth,  commanded  by  Captain  Armi- 
sted.  I  should  like  to  meet  him  if  you  do  not 
mind." 

"  He  is  worth  meeting.  But  there's  a  bad 
bit  of  jungle  out  there,  and  I  should  advise 
that  you  leave  your  horse  and  " — with  a  look 
at  the  Governor's  retinue — "your  other  im- 
pedimenta." 

The  Governor  went  forward  alone  and  on 
foot.  In  a  half-hour  he  had  pushed  through 
a  tangled  undergrowth  covering  a  boggy  soil 
and  entered  upon  firm  and  more  open  ground. 
Here  he  found  a  half-company  of  infantry 
lounging  behind  a  line  of  stacked  rifles.  The 
men  wore  their  accoutrements — their  belts, 
cartridge-boxes,  haversacks  and  canteens. 
Some  lying  at  full  length  on  the  dry  leaves 
were  fast  asleep :  others  in  small  groups  gos- 
siped idly  of  this  and  that;  a  few  played  at 
cards;  none  was  far  from  the  line  of  stacked 
arms.  To  the  civilian's  eye  the  scene  was  one 
of  carelessness,  confusion,  indifference;  a  sol- 
dier would  have  observed  expectancy  and 
readiness. 

At  a  little  distance  apart  an  officer  in 
fatigue  uniform,  armed,  sat  on  a  fallen  tree 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       153 

noting  the  approach  of  the  visitor,  to  whom  a 
sergeant,  rising  from  one  of  the  groups,  now 
came  forward. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Captain  Armisted,"  said  the 
Governor. 

The  sergeant  eyed  him  narrowly,  saying 
nothing,  pointed  to  the  officer,  and  taking  a 
rifle  from  one  of  the  stacks,  accompanied 
him. 

"  This  man  wants  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  the 
sergeant,  saluting.  The  officer  rose. 

It  would  have  been  a  sharp  eye  that  would 
have  recognized  him.  His  hair,  which  but  a 
few  months  before  had  been  brown,  was 
streaked  with  gray.  His  face,  tanned  by 
exposure,  was  seamed  as  with  age.  A  long 
livid  scar  across  the  forehead  marked  the 
stroke  of  a  sabre;  one  cheek  was  drawn  and 
puckered  by  the  work  of  a  bullet.  Only  a 
woman  of  the  loyal  North  would  have 
thought  the  man  handsome. 

"  Armisted— Captain,"  said  the  Governor, 
extending  his  hand,  "do  you  not  know 
me?" 

"  I  know  you,  sir,  and  I  salute  you— as  the 
Governor  of  my  State." 

Lifting  his  right  hand  to  the  level  of  his 
eyes  he  threw  it  outward  and  downward.  In 


154    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  code  of  military  etiquette  there  is  no  pro- 
vision for  shaking  hands.  That  of  the  civilian 
was  withdrawn.  If  he  felt  either  surprise  or 
chagrin  his  face  did  not  betray  it. 

"  It  is  the  hand  that  signed  your  commis- 
sion," he  said. 

"  And  it  is  the  hand " 

The  sentence  remains  unfinished.  The 
sharp  report  of  a  rifle  came  from  the  front, 
followed  by  another  and  another.  A  bullet 
hissed  through  the  forest  and  struck  a  tree  near 
by.  The  men  sprang  from  the  ground  and 
even  before  the  captain's  high,  clear  voice  was 
done  intoning  the  command  "  At-ten-tion  1 " 
had  fallen  into  line  in  rear  of  the  stacked  arms. 
Again — and  now  through  the  din  of  a  crack- 
ling fusillade — sounded  the  strong,  deliberate 
sing-song  of  authority:  "Take  .  .  .  arms!" 
followed  by  the  rattle  of  unlocking  bayo- 
nets. 

Bullets  from  the  unseen  enemy  were  now 
flying  thick  and  fast,  though  mostly  well  spent 
and  emitting  the  humming  sound  which  signi- 
fied interference  by  twigs  and  rotation  in  the 
plane  of  flight.  Two  or  three  of  the  men  in 
the  line  were  already  struck  and  down.  A 
few  wounded  men  came  limping  awkwardly 
out  of  the  undergrowth  from  the  skirmish  line 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        155 

in  front;  most  of  them  did  not  pause,  but  held 
their  way  with  white  faces  and  set  teeth  to  the 
rear. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  deep,  jarring  report  in 
front,  followed  by  the  startling  rush  of  a  shell, 
which  passing  overhead  exploded  in  the  edge 
of  a  thicket,  setting  afire  the  fallen  leaves. 
Penetrating  the  din — seeming  to  float  above  it 
like  the  melody  of  a  soaring  bird — rang  the 
slow,  aspirated  monotones  of  the  captain's  sev- 
eral commands,  without  emphasis,  without 
accent,  musical  and  restful  as  an  evensong 
under  the  harvest  moon.  Familiar  with  this 
tranquilizing  chant  in  moments  of  imminent 
peril,  these  raw  soldiers  of  less  than  a  year's 
training  yielded  themselves  to  the  spell,  exe- 
cuting its  mandates  with  the  composure  and 
precision  of  veterans.  Even  the  distinguished 
civilian  behind  his  tree,  hesitating  between 
pride  and  terror,  was  accessible  to  its  charm 
and  suasion.  He  was  conscious  of  a  forti- 
fied resolution  and  ran  away  only  when  the 
skirmishers,  under  orders  to  rally  on  the  re- 
serve, came  out  of  the  woods  like  hunted  hares 
and  formed  on  the  left  of  the  stiff  little  line, 
breathing  hard  and  thankful  for  the  boon  of 
breath. 


156    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

III 

THE   FIGHTING  OF   ONE  WHOSE  HEART  WAS 
NOT  IN  THE  QUARREL 

Guided  in  his  retreat  by  that  of  the 
fugitive  wounded,  the  Governor  struggled 
bravely  to  the  rear  through  the  "  bad  bit  of 
jungle."  He  was  well  winded  and  a  trifle  con- 
fused. Excepting  a  single  rifle-shot  now  and 
again,  there  was  no  sound  of  strife  behind 
him;  the  enemy  was  pulling  himself  together 
for  a  new  onset  against  an  antagonist  of  whose 
numbers  and  tactical  disposition  he  was  in 
doubt.  The  fugitive  felt  that  he  would  prob- 
ably be  spared  to  his  country,  and  only  com- 
mended the  arrangements  of  Providence  to 
that  end,  but  in  leaping  a  small  brook  in  more 
open  ground  one  of  the  arrangements  incurred 
the  mischance  of  a  disabling  sprain  at  the 
ankle.  He  was  unable  to  continue  his  flight, 
for  he  was  too  fat  to  hop,  and  after  several 
vain  attempts,  causing  intolerable  pain,  seated 
himself  on  the  earth  to  nurse  his  ignoble  dis- 
ability and  deprecate  the  military  situation. 

A  brisk  renewal  of  the  firing  broke  out  and 
stray  bullets  came  flitting  and  droning  by. 
Then  came  the  crash  of  two  clean,  definite 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       157 

volleys,  followed  by  a  continuous  rattle, 
through  which  he  heard  the  yells  and  cheers 
of  the  combatants,  punctuated  by  thunder- 
claps of  cannon.  All  this  told  him  that 
Armisted's  little  command  was  bitterly  beset 
and  fighting  at  close  quarters.  The  wounded 
men  whom  he  had  distanced  began  to  straggle 
by  on  either  hand,  their  numbers  visibly  aug- 
mented by  new  levies  from  the  line.  Singly 
and  by  twos  and  threes,  some  supporting  com- 
rades more  desperately  hurt  than  themselves, 
but  all  deaf  to  his  appeals  for  assistance,  they 
sifted  through  the  underbrush  and  disap- 
peared. The  firing  was  increasingly  louder 
and  more  distinct,  and  presently  the  ailing 
fugitives  were  succeeded  by  men  who  strode 
with  a  firmer  tread,  occasionally  facing  about 
and  discharging  their  pieces,  then  doggedly 
resuming  their  retreat,  reloading  as  they 
walked.  Two  or  three  fell  as  he  looked,  and 
lay  motionless.  One  had  enough  of  life  left 
in  him  to  make  a  pitiful  attempt  to  drag  him- 
self to  cover.  A  passing  comrade  paused 
beside  him  long  enough  to  fire,  appraised  the 
poor  devil's  disability  with  a  look  and  moved 
sullenly  on,  inserting  a  cartridge  in  his 
weapon. 

In  all  this  was  none  of  the  pomp  of  war 


158    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

• — no  hint  of  glory.  Even  in  his  distress  and 
peril  the  helpless  civilian  could  not  forbear  to 
contrast  it  with  the  gorgeous  parades  and 
reviews  held  in  honor  of  himself — with  the 
brilliant  uniforms,  the  music,  the  banners,  and 
the  marching.  It  was  an  ugly  and  sickening 
business :  to  all  that  was  artistic  in  his  nature, 
revolting,  brutal,  in  bad  taste. 

"Ugh!"  he  grunted,  shuddering — "this  is 
beastly!  Where  is  the  charm  of  it  all? 
Where  are  the  elevated  sentiments,  the  devo- 
tion, the  heroism,  the " 

From  a  point  somewhere  near,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  pursuing  enemy,  rose  the  clear,  de- 
liberate sing-song  of  Captain  Armisted. 

"Stead-y,  men — stead-y.  Halt!  Com- 
mence fir-ing." 

The  rattle  of  fewer  than  a  score  of  rifles 
could  be  distinguished  through  the  general 
uproar,  and  again  that  penetrating  falsetto: 

"  Cease  fir-ing.  In  re-treat  .... 
maaarch! " 

In  a  few  moments  this  remnant  had  drifted 
slowly  past  the  Governor,  all  to  the  right  of 
him  as  they  faced  in  retiring,  the  men  de- 
ployed at  intervals  of  a  half-dozen  paces.  At 
the  extreme  left  and  a  few  yards  behind  came 
the  captain.  The  civilian  called  out  his  name, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        159 

but  he  did  not  hear.  A  swarm  of  men  in  gray 
now  broke  out  of  cover  in  pursuit,  making 
directly  for  the  spot  where  the  Governor  lay 
— some  accident  of  the  ground  had  caused 
them  to  converge  upon  that  point:  their  line 
had  become  a  crowd.  In  a  last  struggle  for 
life  and  liberty  the  Governor  attempted  to 
rise,  and  looking  back  the  captain  saw  him. 
Promptly,  but  with  the  same  slow  precision  as 
before,  he  sang  his  commands: 

"  Skirm-ish-ers,  halt!"  The  men  stopped 
and  according  to  rule  turned  to  face  the 
enemy. 

"Ral-ly  on  the  right!" — and  they  came  in 
at  a  run,  fixing  bayonets  and  forming  loosely 
on  the  man  at  that  end  of  the  line. 

"  Forward  .  .  to  save  the  Gov-ern-or  of 
your  State  .  .  doub-le  quick  .  .  .  maaarch!" 

Only  one  man  disobeyed  this  astonishing 
command!  He  was  dead.  With  a  cheer  they 
sprang  forward  over  the  twenty  or  thirty 
paces  between  them  and  their  task.  The  cap- 
tain having  a  shorter  distance  to  go  arrived 
first — simultaneously  with  the  enemy.  A 
half-dozen  hasty  shots  were  fired  at  him,  and 
the  foremost  man — a  fellow  of  heroic  stature, 
hatless  and  bare-breasted — made  a  vicious 
sweep  at  his  head  with  a  clubbed  rifle.  The 


160    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

officer  parried  the  blow  at  the  cost  of  a  broken 
arm  and  drove  his  sword  to  the  hilt  into  the 
giant's  breast.  As  the  body  fell  the  weapon 
was  wrenched  from  his  hand  and  before  he 
could  pluck  his  revolver  from  the  scabbard 
at  his  belt  another  man  leaped  upon  him  like 
a  tiger,  fastening  both  hands  upon  his  throat 
and  bearing  him  backward  upon  the  prostrate 
Governor,  still  struggling  to  rise.  This  man 
was  promptly  spitted  upon  the  bayonet  of  a 
Federal  sergeant  and  his  death-gripe  on  the 
captain's  throat  loosened  by  a  kick  upon  each 
wrist.  When  the  captain  had  risen  he  was  at 
the  rear  of  his  men,  who  had  all  passed  over 
and  around  him  and  were  thrusting  fiercely  at 
their  more  numerous  but  less  coherent  antag- 
onists. Nearly  all  the  rifles  on  both  sides  were 
empty  and  in  the  crush  there  was  neither 
time  nor  room  to  reload.  The  Confederates 
were  at  a  disadvantage  in  that  most  of  them 
lacked  bayonets;  they  fought  by  bludgeoning 
— and  a  clubbed  rifle  is  a  formidable  arm. 
The  sound  of  the  conflict  was  a  clatter  like 
that  of  the  interlocking  horns  of  battling  bulls 
— now  and  then  the  pash  of  a  crushed  skull, 
an  oath,  or  a  grunt  caused  by  the  impact  of  a 
rifle's  muzzle  against  the  abdomen  transfixed 
by  its  bayonet.  Through  an  opening  made  by 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       161 

the  fall  of  one  of  his  men  Captain  Armisted 
sprang,  with  his  dangling  left  arm ;  in  his  right 
hand  a  full-charged  revolver,  which  he  fired 
with  rapidity  and  terrible  effect  into  the  thick 
of  the  gray  crowd :  but  across  the  bodies  of  the 
slain  the  survivors  in  the  front  were  pushed 
forward  by  their  comrades  in  the  rear  till 
again  they  breasted  the  tireless  bayonets. 
There  were  fewer  bayonets  now  to  breast — a 
beggarly  half-dozen,  all  told.  A  few  minutes 
more  of  this  rough  work — a  little  fighting 
back  to  back — and  all  would  be  over. 

Suddenly  a  lively  firing  was  heard  on  the 
right  and  the  left:  a  fresh  line  of  Federal 
skirmishers  came  forward  at  a  run,  driving 
before  them  those  parts  of  the  Confederate 
line  that  had  been  separated  by  staying  the 
advance  of  the  centre.  And  behind  these  new 
and  noisy  combatants,  at  a  distance  of  two  or 
three  hundred  yards,  could  be  seen,  indistinct 
among  the  trees  a  line-of-battle! 

Instinctively  before  retiring,  the  crowd  in 
gray  made  a  tremendous  rush  upon  its  hand- 
ful of  antagonists,  overwhelming  them  by 
mere  momentum  and,  unable  to  use  weapons 
in  the  crush,  trampled  them,  stamped  savagely 
on  their  limbs,  their  bodies,  their  necks,  their 
faces ;  then  retiring  with  bloody  feet  across  its 


162     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

own  dead  it  joined  the  general  rout  and  the 
incident  was  at  an  end. 


IVi 

THE  GREAT  HONOR  THE  GREAT 

The  Governor,  who  had  been  unconscious, 
opened  his  eyes  and  stared  about  him,  slowly 
recalling  the  day's  events.  A  man  in  the  uni- 
form of  a  major  was  kneeling  beside  him;  he 
was  a  surgeon.  Grouped  about  were  the 
civilian  members  of  the  Governor's  staff, 
their  faces  expressing  a  natural  solicitude 
regarding  their  offices.  A  little  apart  stood 
General  Masterson  addressing  another  officer 
and  gesticulating  with  a  cigar.  He  was  say- 
ing: "It  was  the  beautifulest  fight  ever 
made — by  God,  sir,  it  was  great!" 

The  beauty  and  greatness  were  attested  by 
a  row  of  dead,  trimly  disposed,  and  another  of 
wounded,  less  formally  placed,  restless,  half- 
naked,  but  bravely  bebandaged. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  sir?"  said  the  surgeon. 
"  I  find  no  wound." 

"I  think  I  am  all  right,"  the  patient 
replied,  sitting  up.  "  It  is  that  ankle." 

The  surgeon  transferred  his  attention  to  the 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        163 

ankle,  cutting  away  the  boot.  All  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  knife. 

In  moving  the  leg  a  folded  paper  was  un- 
covered. The  patient  picked  it  up  and  care- 
lessly opened  it.  It  was  a  letter  three  months 
old,  signed  "Julia."  Catching  sight  of  his 
name  in  it  he  read  it.  It  was  nothing  very 
remarkable — merely  a  weak  woman's  confes- 
sion of  unprofitable  sin — the  penitence  of  a 
faithless  wife  deserted  by  her  betrayer.  The 
letter  had  fallen  from  the  pocket  of  Captain 
Armisted ;  the  reader  quietly  transferred  it  to 
his  own. 

An  aide-de-camp  rode  up  and  dismounted. 
Advancing  to  the  Governor  he  saluted. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sorry  to  find  you 
wounded — the  Commanding  General  has  not 
been  informed.  He  presents  his  compliments 
and  I  am  directed  to  say  that  he  has  ordered 
for  to-morrow  a  grand  review  of  the  reserve 
corps  in  your  honor.  I  venture  to  add  that  the 
General's  carriage  is  at  your  service  if  you  are 
able  to  attend." 

"Be  pleased  to  say  to  the  Commanding 
General  that  I  am  deeply  touched  by  his  kind- 
ness. If  you  have  the  patience  to  wait  a  few 
moments  you  shall  convey  a  more  definite 
reply." 


164    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

He  smiled  brightly  and  glancing  at  the 
surgeon  and  his  assistants  added:  "At  pres- 
ent— if  you  will  permit  an  allusion  to  the  hor- 
rors of  peace — I  am  'in  the  hands  of  my 
friends.'" 

The  humor  of  the  great  is  infectious;  all 
laughed  who  heard. 

"Where  is  Captain  Armisted?"  the  Gov- 
ernor asked,  not  altogether  carelessly. 

The  surgeon  looked  up  from  his  work, 
pointing  silently  to  the  nearest  body  in  the  row 
of  dead,  the  features  discreetly  covered  with  a 
handkerchief.  It  was  so  near  that  the  great 
man  could  have  laid  his  hand  upon  it,  but  he 
did  not.  He  may  have  feared  that  it  would 
bleed. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        165 
THE  STORY  OF  A  CONSCIENCE 


CAPTAIN  PARROL  HARTROY 
stood  at  the  advanced  post  of  his 
picket-guard,  talking  in  low  tones 
with  the  sentinel.  This  post  was  on  a 
turnpike  which  bisected  the  captain's  camp,  a 
half-mile  in  rear,  though  the  camp  was  not  in 
sight  from  that  point.  The  officer  was  appar- 
ently giving  the  soldier  certain  instructions — 
was  perhaps  merely  inquiring  if  all  were  quiet 
in  front.  As  the  two  stood  talking  a  man 
approached  them  from  the  direction  of  the 
campj  carelessly  whistling,  and  was  promptly 
halted  by  the  soldier.  He  was  evidently  a 
civilian — a  tall  person,  coarsely  clad  in  the 
home-made  stuff  of  yellow  gray,  called  "  but- 
ternut," which  was  men's  only  wear  in  the 
latter  days  of  the  Confederacy.  On  his  head 
was  a  slouch  felt  hat,  once  white,  from 
beneath  which  hung  masses  of  uneven  hair, 
seemingly  unacquainted  with  either  scissors  or 
comb.  The  man's  face  was  rather  striking;  a 
broad  forehead,  high  nose,  and  thin  cheeks, 
the  mouth  invisible  in  the  full  dark  beard, 


166    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

which  seemed  as  neglected  as  the  hair.  The 
eyes  were  large  and  had  that  steadiness  and 
fixity  of  attention  which  so  frequently  mark  a 
considering  intelligence  and  a  will  not  easily 
turned  from  its  purpose — so  say  those  phys- 
iognomists who  have  that  kind  of  eyes.  On 
the  whole,  this  was  a  man  whom  one  would  be 
likely  to  observe  and  be  observed  by.  He 
carried  a  walking-stick  freshly  cut  from  the 
forest  and  his  ailing  cowskin  boots  were  white 
with  dust. 

"Show  your  pass,"  said  the  Federal  sol- 
dier, a  trifle  more  imperiously  perhaps  than 
he  would  have  thought  necessary  if  he  had  not 
been  under  the  eye  of  his  commander,  who 
with  folded  arms  looked  on  from  the  road- 
side. 

"  'Lowed  you'd  rec'lect  me,  Gineral,"  said 
the  wayfarer  tranquilly,  while  producing  the 
paper  from  the  pocket  of  his  coat.  There  was 
something  in  his  tone — perhaps  a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  irony — which  made  his  elevation  of 
his  obstructor  to  exalted  rank  less  agreeable  to 
that  worthy  warrior  than  promotion  is  com- 
monly found  to  be.  "  You-all  have  to  be  purty 
pertickler,  I  reckon,"  he  added,  in  a  more 
conciliatory  tone,  as  if  in  half-apology  for 
being  halted. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        167 

Having  read  the  pass,  with  his  rifle  resting 
on  the  ground,  the  soldier  handed  the  docu- 
ment back  without  a  word,  shouldered  his 
weapon,  and  returned  to  his  commander.  The 
civilian  passed  on  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  when  he  had  penetrated  the  circumjacent 
Confederacy  a  few  yards  resumed  his  whist- 
ling and  was  soon  out  of  sight  beyond  an 
angle  in  the  road,  which  at  that  point  entered 
a  thin  forest.  Suddenly  the  officer  undid  his 
arms  from  his  breast,  drew  a  revolver  from 
his  belt  and  sprang  forward  at  a  run  in  the 
same  direction,  leaving  his  sentinel  in  gaping 
astonishment  at  his  post.  After  making  to  the 
various  visible  forms  of  nature  a  solemn 
promise  to  be  damned,  that  gentleman  re- 
sumed the  air  of  stolidity  which  is  supposed 
to  be  appropriate  to  a  state  of  alert  military 
attention. 

II 

Captain  Hartroy  held  an  independent  com- 
mand. His  force  consisted  of  a  company 
of  infantry,  a  squadron  of  cavalry,  and  a  sec- 
tion of  artillery,  detached  from  the  army  to 
which  they  belonged,  to  defend  an  important 
defile  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains  in  Ten- 
nessee. It  was  a  field  officer's  command  held 
by  a  line  officer  promoted  from  the  ranks, 


168    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

where  he  had  quietly  served  until  "discov- 
ered." His  post  was  one  of  exceptional  peril ; 
its  defense  entailed  a  heavy  responsibility  and 
he  had  wisely  been  given  corresponding  dis- 
cretionary powers,  all  the  more  necessary  be- 
cause of  his  distance  from  the  main  army,  the 
precarious  nature  of  his  communications  and 
the  lawless  character  of  the  enemy's  irregular 
troops  infesting  that  region.  He  had  strongly 
fortified  his  little  camp,  which  embraced  a 
village  of  a  half-dozen  dwellings  and  a  coun- 
try store,  and  had  collected  a  considerable 
quantity  of  supplies.  To  a  few  resident 
civilians  of  known  loyalty,  with  whom  it  was 
desirable  to  trade,  and  of  whose  services  in 
various  ways  he  sometimes  availed  himself, 
he  had  given  written  passes  admitting  them 
within  his  lines.  It  is  easy  to  understand  that 
an  abuse  of  this  privilege  in  the  interest  of  the 
enemy  might  entail  serious  consequences. 
Captain  Hartroy  had  made  an  order  to  the 
effect  that  any  one  so  abusing  it  would  be 
summarily  shot. 

While  the  sentinel  had  been  examining  the 
civilian's  pass  the  captain  had  eyed  the  lat- 
ter narrowly.  He  thought  his  appearance 
familiar  and  had  at  first  no  doubt  of  having 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       169 

given  him  the  pass  which  had  satisfied  the 
sentinel.  It  was  not  until  the  man  had  got  out 
of  sight  and  hearing  that  his  identity  was  dis- 
closed by  a  revealing  light  from  memory. 
With  soldierly  promptness  of  decision  the 
officer  had  acted  on  the  revelation. 

Ill 

To  any  but  a  singularly  self-possessed  man 
the  apparition  of  an  officer  of  the  military 
forces,  formidably  clad,  bearing  in  one  hand 
a  sheathed  sword  and  in  the  other  a  cocked 
revolver,  and  rushing  in  furious  pursuit,  is 
no  doubt  disquieting  to  a  high  degree;  upon 
the  man  to  whom  the  pursuit  was  in  this  in- 
stance directed  it  appeared  to  have  no  other 
effect  than  somewhat  to  intensify  his  tranquill- 
ity. He  might  easily  enough  have  escaped 
into  the  forest  to  the  right  or  the  left,  but 
chose  another  course  of  action — turned  and 
quietly  faced  the  captain,  saying  as  he  came 
up :  "I  reckon  ye  must  have  something  to 
say  to  me,  which  ye  disremembered.  What 
mout  it  be,  neighbor?" 

But  the  "neighbor"  did  not  answer,  being 
engaged  in  the  unneighborly  act  of  covering 
him  with  a  cocked  pistol. 


170    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Surrender,"  said  the  captain  as  calmly  as 
a  slight  breathlessness  from  exertion  would 
permit,  "  or  you  die." 

There  was  no  menace  in  the  manner  of  this 
demand ;  that  was  all  in  the  matter  and  in  the 
means  of  enforcing  it.  There  was,  too,  some- 
thing not  altogether  reassuring  in  the  cold 
gray  eyes  that  glanced  along  the  barrel  of  the 
weapon.  For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood 
looking  at  each  other  in  silence;  then  the 
civilian,  with  no  appearance  of  fear — with  as 
great  apparent  unconcern  as  when  complying 
with  the  less  austere  demand  of  the  sentinel — 
slowly  pulled  from  his  pocket  the  paper  which 
had  satisfied  that  humble  functionary  and 
held  it  out,  saying: 

"  I  reckon  this  'ere  parss  from  Mister  Hart- 
roy  is " 

"The  pass  is  a  forgery,"  the  officer  said,  in- 
terrupting. "  I  am  Captain  Hartroy — and 
you  are  Dramer  Brune." 

It  would  have  required  a  sharp  eye  to 
observe  the  slight  pallor  of  the  civilian's  face 
at  these  words,  and  the  only  other  manifesta- 
tion attesting  their  significance  was  a  volun- 
tary relaxation  of  the  thumb  and  fingers  hold- 
ing the  dishonored  paper,  which,  falling  to 
the  road,  unheeded,  was  rolled  by  a  gentle 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        171 

wind  and  then  lay  still,  with  a  coating  of  dust, 
as  in  humiliation  for  the  lie  that  it  bore.  A 
moment  later  the  civilian,  still  looking  un- 
moved into  the  barrel  of  the  pistol,  said: 

"Yes,  I  am  Dramer  Brune,  a  Confederate 
spy,  and  your  prisoner.  I  have  on  my  person, 
as  you  will  soon  discover,  a  plan  of  your  fort 
and  its  armament,  a  statement  of  the  distribu- 
tion of  your  men  and  their  number,  a  map  of 
the  approaches,  showing  the  positions  of  all 
your  outposts.  My  life  is  fairly  yours,  but  if 
you  wish  it  taken  in  a  more  formal  way  than 
by  your  own  hand,  and  if  you  are  willing  to 
spare  me  the  indignity  of  marching  into  camp 
at  the  muzzle  of  your  pistol,  I  promise  you 
that  I  will  neither  resist,  escape,  nor  remon- 
strate, but  will  submit  to  whatever  penalty 
may  be  imposed." 

The  officer  lowered  his  pistol,  uncocked  it, 
and  thrust  it  into  its  place  in  his  belt.  Brune 
advanced  a  step,  extending  his  right  hand. 

"  It  is  the  hand  of  a  traitor  and  a  spy,"  said 
the  officer  coldly,  and  did  not  take  it.  The 
other  bowed. 

"Come,"  said  the  captain,  "let  us  go  to 
camp;  you  shall  not  die  until  to-morrow 
morning." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  his  prisoner,  and 


172    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

these  two  enigmatical  men  retraced  their 
steps  and  soon  passed  the  sentinel,  who  ex- 
pressed his  general  sense  of  things  by  a  need- 
less and  exaggerated  salute  to  his  commander. 

IV 

Early  on  the  morning  after  these  events  the 
two  men,  captor  and  captive,  sat  in  the  tent 
of  the  former.  A  table  was  between  them  on 
which  lay,  among  a  number  of  letters,  official 
and  private,  which  the  captain  had  written 
during  the  night,  the  incriminating  papers 
found  upon  the  spy.  That  gentleman  had 
slept  through  the  night  in  an  adjoining  tent, 
unguarded.  Both,  having  breakfasted,  were 
now  smoking. 

"  Mr.  Brune,"  said  Captain  Hartroy,  "you 
probably  do  not  understand  why  I  recognized 
you  in  your  disguise,  nor  how  I  was  aware  of 
your  name." 

"  I  have  not  sought  to  learn,  Captain,"  the 
prisoner  said  with  quiet  dignity. 

"  Nevertheless  I  should  like  you  to  know — 
if  the  story  will  not  offend.  You  will  perceive 
that  my  knowledge  of  you  goes  back  to  the 
autumn  of  1861.  At  that  time  you  were  a 
private  in  an  Ohio  regiment — a  brave  and 
trusted  soldier.  To  the  surprise  and  grief  of 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        173 

your  officers  and  comrades  you  deserted  and 
went  over  to  the  enemy.  Soon  afterward  you 
were  captured  in  a  skirmish,  recognized,  tried 
by  court-martial  and  sentenced  to  be  shot. 
Awaiting  the  execution  of  the  sentence  you 
were  confined,  unfettered,  in  a  freight  car 
standing  on  a  side  track  of  a  railway." 

"At  Grafton,  Virginia,"  said  Brune,  push- 
ing the  ashes  from  his  cigar  with  the  little 
finger  of  the  hand  holding  it,  and  without 
looking  up. 

"At  Grafton,  Virginia,"  the  captain  re- 
peated. "One  dark  and  stormy  night  a  sol- 
dier who  had  just  returned  from  a  long,  fa- 
tiguing march  was  put  on  guard  over  you.  He 
sat  on  a  cracker  box  inside  the  car,  near  the 
door,  his  rifle  loaded  and  the  bayonet  fixed. 
You  sat  in  a  corner  and  his  orders  were  to  kill 
you  if  you  attempted  to  rise." 

"  But  if  I  asked  to  rise  he  might  call  the 
corporal  of  the  guard." 

"Yes.  As  the  long  silent  hours  wore  away 
the  soldier  yielded  to  the  demands  of  nature: 
he  himself  incurred  the  death  penalty  by 
sleeping  at  his  post  of  duty." 

"You  did." 

"  What!  you  recognize  me?  you  have  known 
me  all  along?" 


174    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

The  captain  had  risen  and  was  walking  the 
floor  of  his  tent,  visibly  excited.  His  face  was 
flushed,  the  gray  eyes  had  lost  the  cold,  piti- 
less look  which  they  had  shown  when  Brune 
had  seen  them  over  the  pistol  barrel ;  they  had 
softened  wonderfully. 

"  I  knew  you,"  said  the  spy,  with  his  cus- 
tomary tranquillity,  "  the  moment  you  faced 
me,  demanding  my  surrender.  In  the  circum- 
stances it  would  have  been  hardly  becoming 
in  me  to  recall  these  matters.  I  am  perhaps  a 
traitor,  certainly  a  spy;  but  I  should  not  wish 
to  seem  a  suppliant." 

The  captain  had  paused  in  his  walk  and  was 
facing  his  prisoner.  There  was  a  singular 
huskiness  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  again. 

"Mr.  Brune,  whatever  your  conscience  may 
permit  you  to  be,  you  saved  my  life  at  what 
you  must  have  believed  the  cost  of  your  own. 
Until  I  saw  you  yesterday  when  halted  by  my 
sentinel  I  believed  you  dead — thought  that 
you  had  suffered  the  fate  which  through  my 
own  crime  you  might  easily  have  escaped. 
You  had  only  to  step  from  the  car  and  leave 
me  to  take  your  place  before  the  firing-squad. 
You  had  a  divine  compassion.  You  pitied  my 
fatigue.  You  let  me  sleep,  watched  over  me, 
and  as  the  time  drew  near  for  the  relief-guard 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        175 

to  come  and  detect  me  in  my  crime,  you  gently 
waked  me.  Ah,  Brune,  Brune,  that  was  well 
done — that  was  great — that " 

The  captain's  voice  failed  him;  the  tears 
were  running  down  his  face  and  sparkled 
upon  his  beard  and  his  breast.  Resuming  his 
seat  at  the  table,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  arms 
and  sobbed.  All  else  was  silence. 

Suddenly  the  clear  warble  of  a  bugle  was 
heard  sounding  the  "  assembly."  The  captain 
started  and  raised  his  wet  face  from  his  arms ; 
it  had  turned  ghastly  pale.  Outside,  in  the 
sunlight,  were  heard  the  stir  of  the  men  fall- 
ing into  line ;  the  voices  of  the  sergeants  call- 
ing the  roll ;  the  tapping  of  the  drummers  as 
they  braced  their  drums.  The  captain  spoke 
again : 

"  I  ought  to  have  confessed  my  fault  in 
order  to  relate  the  story  of  your  magnanimity; 
it  might  have  procured  you  a  pardon.  A  hun- 
dred times  I  resolved  to  do  so,  but  shame  pre- 
vented. Besides,  your  sentence  was  just  and 
righteous.  Well,  Heaven  forgive  me!  I  said 
nothing,  and  my  regiment  was  soon  afterward 
ordered  to  Tennessee  and  I  never  heard  about 
you." 

"  It  was  all  right,  sir,"  said  Brune,  without 
visible  emotion ;  "  I  escaped  and  returned  to 


176    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

my  colors — the  Confederate  colors.  I  should 
like  to  add  that  before  deserting  from  the  Fed- 
eral service  I  had  earnestly  asked  a  discharge, 
on  the  ground  of  altered  convictions.  I  was 
answered  by  punishment." 

"Ah,  but  if  I  had  suffered  the  penalty  of 
my  crime — if  you  had  not  generously  given 
me  the  life  that  I  accepted  without  gratitude 
you  would  not  be  again  in  the  shadow  and 
imminence  of  death." 

The  prisoner  started  slightly  and  a  look  of 
anxiety  came  into  his  face.  One  would 
have  said,  too,  that  he  was  surprised.  At 
that  moment  a  lieutenant,  the  adjutant,  ap- 
peared at  the  opening  of  the  tent  and  saluted. 
"Captain,"  he  said,  "the  battalion  is 
formed." 

Captain  Hartroy  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure. He  turned  to  the  officer  and  said: 
"  Lieutenant,  go  to  Captain  Graham  and  say 
that  I  direct  him  to  assume  command  of  the 
battalion  and  parade  it  outside  the  parapet. 
This  gentleman  is  a  deserter  and  a  spy;  he  is 
to  be  shot  to  death  in  the  presence  of  the 
troops.  He  will  accompany  you,  unbound  and 
unguarded." 

While  the  adjutant  waited  at  the  door  the 
two  men  inside  the  tent  rose  and  exchanged 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       177 

ceremonious  bows,  Brune  immediately  retir- 
ing. 

Half  an  hour  later  an  old  negro  cook,  the 
only  person  left  in  camp  except  the  com- 
mander, was  so  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  vol- 
ley of  musketry  that  he  dropped  the  kettle  that 
he  was  lifting  from  a  fire.  But  for  his  con- 
sternation and  the  hissing  which  the  contents 
of  the  kettle  made  among  the  embers,  he  might 
also  have  heard,  nearer  at  hand,  the  single 
pistol  shot  with  which  Captain  Hartroy  re- 
nounced the  life  which  in  conscience  he  could 
no  longer  keep. 

In  compliance  with  the  terms  of  a  note  that 
he  left  for  the  officer  who  succeeded  him  in 
command,  he  was  buried,  like  the  deserter  and 
spy,  without  military  honors ;  and  in  the  sol- 
emn shadow  of  the  mountain  which  knows  no 
more  of  war  the  two  sleep  well  in  long-for- 
gotten graves. 


178    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER 
I 

OF    THE   USES    OF    CIVILITY 

CAPTAIN  RANSOME,  it  is  not 
permitted  to  you  to  know  anything. 
It  is  sufficient  that  you  obey  my 
order — which  permit  me  to  repeat. 
If  you  perceive  any  movement  of  troops  in 
your  front  you  are  to  open  fire,  and  if  attacked 
hold  this  position  as  long  as  you  can.  Do  I 
make  myself  understood,  sir?" 

"Nothing  could  be  plainer.  Lieutenant 
Price," — this  to  an  officer  of  his  own  battery, 
who  had  ridden  up  in  time  to  hear  the  order 
— "  the  general's  meaning  is  clear,  is  it  not?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

The  lieutenant  passed  on  to  his  post.  For 
a  moment  General  Cameron  and  the  com- 
mander of  the  battery  sat  in  their  saddles, 
looking  at  each  other  in  silence.  There  was  no 
more  to  say;  apparently  too  much  had  already 
been  said.  Then  the  superior  officer  nodded 
coldly  and  turned  his  horse  to  ride  away.  The 
artillerist  saluted  slowly,  gravely,  and  with 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        179 

extreme  formality.  One  acquainted  with  the 
niceties  of  military  etiquette  would  have  said 
that  by  his  manner  he  attested  a  sense  of  the 
rebuke  that  he  had  incurred.  It  is  one  of  the 
important  uses  of  civility  to  signify  resent- 
ment. 

When  the  general  had  joined  his  staff  and 
escort,  awaiting  him  at  a  little  distance,  the 
whole  cavalcade  moved  off  toward  the  right 
of  the  guns  and  vanished  in  the  fog.  Captain 
Ransome  was  alone,  silent,  motionless  as  an 
equestrian  statue.  The  gray  fog,  thickening 
every  moment,  closed  in  about  him  like  a  visi- 
ble doom. 

II 

UNDER  WHAT  CIRCUMSTANCES  MEN  DO  NOT 
WISH  TO  BE  SHOT 

The  fighting  of  the  day  before  had  been 
desultory  and  indecisive.  At  the  points  of 
collision  the  smoke  of  battle  had  hung  in  blue 
sheets  among  the  branches  of  the  trees  till 
beaten  into  nothing  by  the  falling  rain.  In 
the  softened  earth  the  wheels  of  cannon  and 
ammunition  wagons  cut  deep,  ragged  furrows, 
and  movements  of  infantry  seemed  impeded 
by  the  mud  that  clung  to  the  soldiers'  feet  as, 


180    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

with  soaken  garments  and  rifles  imperfectly 
protected  by  capes  of  overcoats  they  went 
dragging  in  sinuous  lines  hither  and  thither 
through  dripping  forest  and  flooded  field. 
Mounted  officers,  their  heads  protruding  from 
rubber  ponchos  that  glittered  like  black 
armor,  picked  their  way,  singly  and  in  loose 
groups,  among  the  men,  coming  and  going 
with  apparent  aimlessness  and  commanding 
attention  from  nobody  but  one  another.  Here 
and  there  a  dead  man,  his  clothing  defiled 
with  earth,  his  face  covered  with  a  blanket  or 
showing  yellow  and  claylike  in  the  rain,  added 
his  dispiriting  influence  to  that  of  the  other 
dismal  features  of  the  scene  and  augmented 
the  general  discomfort  with  a  particular  de- 
jection. Very  repulsive  these  wrecks  looked 
— not  at  all  heroic,  and  nobody  was  accessible 
to  the  infection  of  their  patriotic  example. 
Dead  upon  the  field  of  honor,  yes;  but  the 
field  of  honor  was  so  very  wet!  It  makes  a 
difference. 

The  general  engagement  that  all  expected 
did  not  occur,  none  of  the  small  advantages 
accruing,  now  to  this  side  and  now  to  that,  in 
isolated  and  accidental  collisions  being  fol- 
lowed up.  Half-hearted  attacks  provoked  a 
sullen  resistance  which  was  satisfied  with  mere 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        181 

repulse.  Orders  were  obeyed  with  mechanical 
fidelity;  no  one  did  any  more  than  his  duty. 

"  The  army  is  cowardly  to-day,"  said  Gen- 
eral Cameron,  the  commander  of  a  Federal 
brigade,  to  his  adjutant-general. 

"The  army  is  cold,"  replied  the  officer 
addressed,  "and — yes,  it  doesn't  wish  to  be 
like  that." 

He  pointed  to  one  of  the  dead  bodies,  lying 
in  a  thin  pool  of  yellow  water,  its  face  and 
clothing  bespattered  with  mud  from  hoof  and 
wheel. 

The  army's  weapons  seemed  to  share  its  mil- 
itary delinquency.  The  rattle  of  rifles  sounded 
flat  and  contemptible.  It  had  no  meaning 
and  scarcely  roused  to  attention  and  expectancy 
the  unengaged  parts  of  the  line-of-battle  and 
the  waiting  reserves.  Heard  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, the  reports  of  cannon  were  feeble  in 
volume  and  timbre:  they  lacked  sting  and  re- 
sonance. The  guns  seemed  to  be  fired  with 
light  charges,  unshotted.  And  so  the  futile 
day  wore  on  to  its  dreary  close,  and  then  to  a 
night  of  discomfort  succeeded  a  day  of  appre- 
hension. 

An  army  has  a  personality.  Beneath  the 
individual  thoughts  and  emotions  of  its  com- 
ponent parts  it  thinks  and  feels  as  a  unit.  And 


182    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

in  this  large,  inclusive  sense  of  things  lies  a 
wiser  wisdom  than  the  mere  sum  of  all  that  it 
knows.  On  that  dismal  morning  this  great 
brute  force,  groping  at  the  bottom  of  a  white 
ocean  of  fog  among  trees  that  seemed  as  sea 
weeds,  had  a  dumb  consciousness  that  all  was 
not  well;  that  a  day's  manoeuvring  had  re- 
sulted in  a  faulty  disposition  of  its  parts,  a 
blind  diffusion  of  its  strength.  The  men  felt 
insecure  and  talked  among  themselves  of  such 
tactical  errors  as  with  their  meager  military 
vocabulary  they  were  able  to  name.  Field 
and  line  officers  gathered  in  groups  and  spoke 
more  learnedly  of  what  they  apprehended 
with  no  greater  clearness.  Commanders  of 
brigades  and  divisions  looked  anxiously  to 
their  connections  on  the  right  and  on  the  left, 
sent  staff  officers  on  errands  of  inquiry  and 
pushed  skirmish  lines  silently  and  cautiously 
forward  into  the  dubious  region  between  the 
known  and  the  unknown.  At  some  points  on 
the  line  the  troops,  apparently  of  their  own 
volition,  constructed  such  defenses  as  they 
could  without  the  silent  spade  and  the 
noisy  ax. 

One  of  these  points  was  held  by  Captain 
Ransome's  battery  of  six  guns.  Provided 
always  with  intrenching  tools,  his  men  had 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       183 

labored  with  diligence  during  the  night,  and 
now  his  guns  thrust  their  black  muzzles 
through  the  embrasures  of  a  really  formid- 
able earthwork.  It  crowned  a  slight  acclivity 
devoid  of  undergrowth  and  providing  an  un- 
obstructed fire  that  would  sweep  the  ground 
for  an  unknown  distance  in  front.  The  posi- 
tion could  hardly  have  been  better  chosen. 
It  had  this  peculiarity,  which  Captain  Ran- 
some,  who  was  greatly  addicted  to  the  use 
of  the  compass,  had  not  failed  to  observe:  it 
faced  northward,  whereas  he  knew  that  the 
general  line  of  the  army  must  face  eastward. 
In  fact,  that  part  of  the  line  was  "  refused  " — 
that  is  to  say,  bent  backward,  away  from  the 
enemy.  This  implied  that  Captain  Ransome's 
battery  was  somewhere  near  the  left  flank  ofi 
the  army;  for  an  army  in  line  of  battle  retires 
its  flanks  if  the  nature  of  the  ground  will  per- 
mit, they  being  its  vulnerable  points.  Actu- 
ally, Captain  Ransome  appeared  to  hold  the 
extreme  left  of  the  line,  no  troops  being  visi- 
ble in  that  direction  beyond  his  own.  Im- 
mediately in  rear  of  his  guns  occurred  that 
conversation  between  him  and  his  brigade 
commander,  the  concluding  and  more  pictur- 
esque part  of  which  is  reported  above. 


184    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

III 
HOW  TO  PLAY  THE  CANNON  WITHOUT  NOTES 

Captain  Ransome  sat  motionless  and  silent 
on  horseback.  A  few  yards  away  his  men 
were  standing  at  their  guns.  Somewhere — 
everywhere  within  a  few  miles — were  a  hun- 
'dred  thousand  men,  friends  and  enemies.  Yet 
he  was  alone.  The  mist  had  isolated  him  as 
completely  as  if  he  had  been  in  the  heart  of  a 
desert.  His  world  was  a  few  square  yards  of 
wet  and  trampled  earth  about  the  feet  of  his 
horse.  His  comrades  in  that  ghostly  domain 
were  invisible  and  inaudible.  These  were 
conditions  favorable  to  thought,  and  he  was 
thinking.  Of  the  nature  of  his  thoughts  his 
clear-cut  handsome  features  yielded  no  attest- 
ing sign.  His  face  was  as  inscrutable  as  that 
of  the  sphinx.  Why  should  it  have  made  a 
record  which  there  was  none  to  observe?  At 
the  sound  of  a  footstep  he  merely  turned  his 
eyes  in  the  direction  whence  it  came;  one  of 
his  sergeants,  looking  a  giant  in  stature  in  the 
false  perspective  of  the  fog,  approached,  and 
when  clearly  defined  and  reduced  to  his  true 
'dimensions  by  propinquity,  saluted  and  stood 
at  attention. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        185 

"  Well,  Morris,"  said  the  officer,  returning 
his  subordinate's  salute. 

"  Lieutenant  Price  directed  me  to  tell  you, 
sir,  that  most  of  the  infantry  has  been  with- 
drawn. We  have  not  sufficient  support." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"  I  am  to  say  that  some  of  our  men  have 
been  out  over  the  works  a  hundred  yards  and 
report  that  our  front  is  not  picketed." 

"Yes." 

"  They  were  so  far  forward  that  they  heard 
the  enemy." 

"Yes." 

"They  heard  the  rattle  of  the  wheels  of 
artillery  and  the  commands  of  officers." 

"Yes." 

"  The  enemy  is  moving  toward  our  works." 

Captain  Ransome,  who  had  been  facing  to 
the  rear  of  his  line — toward  the  point  where 
the  brigade  commander  and  his  cavalcade  had 
been  swallowed  up  by  the  fog — reined  his 
horse  about  and  faced  the  other  way.  Then 
he  sat  motionless  as  before. 

"Who  are  the  men  who  made  that  state- 
ment?" he  inquired,  without  looking  at  the 
sergeant;  his  eyes  were  directed  straight  into- 
the  fog  over  the  head  of  his  horse. 

"Corporal  Hassrnan  and  Gunner  Man- 
ning." 


186    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Captain  Ransome  was  a  moment  silent.  A 
slight  pallor  came  into  his  face,  a  slight  com- 
pression affected  the  lines  of  his  lips,  but  it 
would  have  required  a  closer  observer  than 
Sergeant  Morris  to  note  the  change.  There 
was  none  in  the  voice. 

"Sergeant,  present  my  compliments  to 
Lieutenant  Price  and  direct  him  to  open  fire 
with  all  the  guns.  Grape." 

The  sergeant  saluted  and  vanished  in  the 
fog. 


TO  INTRODUCE  GENERAL  MASTERSON 

Searching  for  his  division  commander, 
General  Cameron  and  his  escort  had  followed 
the  line  of  battle  for  nearly  a  mile  to  the  right 
of  Ransome's  battery,  and  there  learned  that 
the  division  commander  had  gone  in  search 
of  the  corps  commander.  It  seemed  that 
everybody  was  looking  for  his  immediate 
superior  —  an  ominous  circumstance.  It 
meant  that  nobody  was  quite  at  ease.  So  Gen- 
eral Cameron  rode  on  for  another  half-mile, 
where  by  good  luck  he  met  General  Master- 
son,  the  division  commander,  returning. 

"Ah,  Cameron,"  said  the  higher  officer, 
reining  up,  and  throwing  his  right  leg  across 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        187 

the  pommel  of  his  saddle  in  a  most  unmilitary 
way — "anything  up?  Found  a  good  position 
for  your  battery,  I  hope — if  one  place  is  better 
than  another  in  a  fog." 

"Yes,  general,"  said  the  other,  with  the 
greater  dignity  appropriate  to  his  less  exalted 
rank,  "  my  battery  is  very  well  placed.  I  wish 
I  could  say  that  it  is  as  well  commanded." 

"  Eh,  what's  that?  Ransome?  I  think  him 
a  fine  fellow.  In  the  army  we  should  be 
proud  of  him." 

It  was  customary  for  officers  of  the  regular 
army  to  speak  of  it  as  "the  army."  As  the 
greatest  cities  are  most  provincial,  so  the  self- 
complacency  of  aristocracies  is  most  frankly 
plebeian. 

"  He  is  too  fond  of  his  opinion.  By  the 
way,  in  order  to  occupy  the  hill  that  he  holds 
I  had  to  extend  my  line  dangerously.  The 
hill  is  on  my  left — that  is  to  say  the  left  flank 
of  the  army." 

"  Oh,  no,  Hart's  brigade  is  beyond.  It  was 
ordered  up  from  Drytown  during  the  night 
and  directed  to  hook  on  to  you.  Better  go 
and " 

The  sentence  was  unfinished:  a  lively  can- 
nonade had  broken  out  on  the  left,  and  both 
officers,  followed  by  their  retinues  of  aides  and 
orderlies  making  a  great  jingle  and  clank, 


188    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

rode  rapidly  toward  the  spot.  But  they  were 
soon  impeded,  for  they  were  compelled  by  the 
fog  to  keep  within  sight  of  the  line-of-battle, 
behind  which  were  swarms  of  men,  all  in 
motion  across  their  way.  Everywhere  the  line 
was  assuming  a  sharper  and  harder  definition, 
as  the  men  sprang  to  arms  and  the  officers, 
with  drawn  swords,  "dressed"  the  ranks. 
Color-bearers  unfurled  the  flags,  buglers  blew 
the  "  assembly,"  hospital  attendants  appeared 
with  stretchers.  Field  officers  mounted  and 
sent  their  impedimenta  to  the  rear  in  care  of 
negro  servants.  Back  in  the  ghostly  spaces  of 
the  forest  could  be  heard  the  rustle  and  mur- 
mur of  the  reserves,  pulling  themselves 
together. 

Nor  was  all  this  preparation  vain,  for 
scarcely  five  minutes  had  passed  since  Captain 
Ransome's  guns  had  broken  the  truce  of  doubt 
before  the  whole  region  was  aroar :  the  enemy 
had  attacked  nearly  everywhere. 

V 

HOW  SOUNDS  CAN  FIGHT  SHADOWS 

Captain  Ransome  walked  up  and  down  be- 
hind his  guns,  which  were  firing  rapidly  but 
with  steadiness.  The  gunners  worked  alertly, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        189 

but  without  haste  or  apparent  excitement. 
There  was  really  no  reason  for  excitement;  it 
is  not  much  to  point  a  cannon  into  a  fog  and 
fire  it.  Anybody  can  do  as  much  as  that. 

The  men  smiled  at  their  noisy  work,  per- 
forming it  with  a  lessening  alacrity.  They 
cast  curious  regards  upon  their  captain,  who 
had  now  mounted  the  banquette  of  the  fort- 
ification and  was  looking  across  the  parapet 
as  if  observing  the  effect  of  his  fire.  But  the 
only  visible  effect  was  the  substitution  of 
wide,  low-lying  sheets  of  smoke  for  their  bulk 
of  fog.  Suddenly  out  of  the  obscurity  burst 
a  great  sound  of  cheering,  which  filled  the  in- 
tervals between  the  reports  of  the  guns  with 
startling  distinctness!  To  the  few  with 
leisure  and  opportunity  to  observe,  the  sound 
was  inexpressibly  strange — so  loud,  so  near, 
so  menacing,  yet  nothing  seen !  The  men  who 
had  smiled  at  their  work  smiled  no  more,  but 
performed  it  with  a  serious  and  feverish  act- 
ivity. 

From  his  station  at  the  parapet  Captain 
Ransome  now  saw  a  great  multitude  of  dim 
gray  figures  taking  shape  in  the  mist  below 
him  and  swarming  up  the  slope.  But  the 
work  of  the  guns  was  now  fast  and  furious. 
They  swept  the  populous  declivity  with  gusts 


190    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

of  grape  and  canister,  the  whirring  of  which 
could  be  heard  through  the  thunder  of  the 
explosions.  In  this  awful  tempest  of  iron  the 
assailants  struggled  forward  foot  by  foot 
across  their  dead,  firing  into  the  embrasures, 
reloading,  firing  again,  and  at  last  falling  in 
their  turn,  a  little  in  advance  of  those  who  had 
fallen  before.  Soon  the  smoke  was  dense 
enough  to  cover  all.  It  settled  down  upon 
the  attack  and,  drifting  back,  involved  the  de- 
fense. The  gunners  could  hardly  see  to  serve 
their  pieces,  and  when  occasional  figures  of 
the  enemy  appeared  upon  the  parapet — hav- 
ing had  the  good  luck  to  get  near  enough  to 
it,  between  two  embrasures,  to  be  protected 
from  the  guns — they  looked  so  unsubstantial 
that  it  seemed  hardly  worth  while  for  the  few 
infantrymen  to  go  to  work  upon  them  with 
the  bayonet  and  tumble  them  back  into  the 
ditch. 

As  the  commander  of  a  battery  in  action 
can  find  something  better  to  do  than  cracking 
individual  skulls,  Captain  Ransome  had  re- 
tired from  the  parapet  to  his  proper  post  in 
rear  of  his  guns,  where  he  stood  with  folded 
arms,  his  bugler  beside  him.  Here,  during 
the  hottest  of  the  fight,  he  was  approached  by 
Lieutenant  Price,  who  had  just  sabred  a  dar- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        191 

ing  assailant  inside  the  work.  A  spirited  col- 
loquy ensued  between  the  two  officers — 
spirited,  at  least,  on  the  part  of  the  lieutenant, 
who  gesticulated  with  energy  and  shouted 
again  and  again  into  his  commander's  ear  in 
the  attempt  to  make  himself  heard  above  the 
infernal  din  of  the  guns.  His  gestures,  if 
coolly  noted  by  an  actor,  would  have  been 
pronounced  to  be  those  of  protestation:  one 
would  have  said  that  he  was  opposed  to  the 
proceedings.  Did  he  wish  to  surrender? 

Captain  Ransome  listened  without  a  change 
of  countenance  or  attitude,  and  when  the 
other  man  had  finished  his  harangue,  looked 
him  coldly  in  the  eyes  and  during  a  season- 
able abatement  of  the  uproar  said : 

"Lieutenant  Price,  it  is  not  permitted  to 
you  to  know  anything.  It  is  sufficient  that 
you  obey  my  orders." 

The  lieuteeant  went  to  his  post,  and  the 
parapet  being  now  apparently  clear  Captain 
Ransome  returned  to  it  to  have  a  look  over. 
As  he  mounted  the  banquette  a  man  sprang 
upon  the  crest,  waving  a  great  brilliant  flag. 
The  captain  drew  a  pistol  from  his  belt  and 
shot  him  dead.  The  body,  pitching  forward, 
hung  over  the  inner  edge  of  the  embankment, 
the  arms  straight  downward,  both  hands  still 


192    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

grasping  the  flag.  The  man's  few  followers 
turned  and  fled  down  the  slope.  Looking 
over  the  parapet,  the  captain  saw  no  living 
thing.  He  observed  also  that  no  bullets  were 
coming  into  the  work. 

He  made  a  sign  to  the  bugler,  who  sounded 
the  command  to  cease  firing.  At  all  other 
points  the  action  had  already  ended  with  a 
repulse  of  the  Confederate  attack;  with  the 
cessation  of  this  cannonade  the  silence  was 
absolute. 

VI 

WHY,  BEING  AFFRONTED  BY  A,  IT  IS  NOT  BEST 
TO  AFFRONT  B 

General  Masterson  rode  into  the  redoubt. 
The  men,  gathered  in  groups,  were  talking 
loudly  and  gesticulating.  They  pointed  at 
the  dead,  running  from  one  body  to  another. 
They  neglected  their  foul  and  heated  guns 
and  forgot  to  resume  their  outer  clothing. 
They  ran  to  the  parapet  and  looked  over, 
some  of  them  leaping  down  into  the  ditch.  A 
score  were  gathered  about  a  flag  rigidly  held 
by  a  dead  man. 

"  Well,  my  men,"  said  the  general  cheerily, 
"you  have  had  a  pretty  fight  of  it." 

They  stared;  nobody  replied;  the  presence 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        193 

of  the  great  man  seemed  to  embarrass  and 
alarm. 

Getting  no  response  to  his  pleasant  con- 
descension, the  easy-mannered  officer  whistled 
a  bar  or  two  of  a  popular  air,  and  riding  for- 
ward to  the  parapet,  looked  over  at  the  dead. 
In  an  instant  he  had  whirled  his  horse  about 
and  was  spurring  along  in  rear  of  the  guns, 
his  eyes  everywhere  at  once.  An  officer  sat 
on  the  trail  of  one  of  the  guns,  smoking  a 
cigar.  As  the  general  dashed  up  he  rose  and 
tranquilly  saluted. 

"Captain  Ransome!" — the  words  fell 
sharp  and  harsh,  like  the  clash  of  steel  blades 
— "  you  have  been  fighting  our  own  men — our 
own  men,  sir;  do  you  hear?  Hart's  brig- 
ade!" 

"  General,  I  know  that." 

"  You  know  it — you  know  that,  and  you  sit 
here  smoking?  Oh,  damn  it,  Hamilton,  I'm 
losing  my  temper," — this  to  his  provost-mar- 
shal. "Sir— Captain  Ransome,  be  good 
enough  to  say — to  say  why  you  fought  our 
own  men." 

"That  I  am  unable  to  say.  In  my  orders 
that  information  was  withheld." 

Apparently  the  general  did  not  compre- 
hend. 


194    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  Who  was  the  aggressor  in  this  affair,  you 
or  General  Hart?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was." 

"And  could  you  not  have  known — could 
you  not  see,  sir,  that  you  were  attacking  our 
own  men?" 

The  reply  was  astounding! 

"  I  knew  that,  general.  It  appeared  to  be 
none  of  my  business." 

Then,  breaking  the  dead  silence  that  fol- 
lowed his  answer,  he  said: 

"  I  must  refer  you  to  General  Cameron." 

"  General  Cameron  is  dead,  sir — as  dead  as 
he  can  be — as  dead  as  any  man  in  this  army. 
He  lies  back  yonder  under  a  tree.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  he  had  anything  to  do  with 
this  horrible  business?" 

Captain  Ransome  did  not  reply.  Observ- 
ing the  altercation  his  men  had  gathered  about 
to  watch  the  outcome.  They  were  greatly  ex- 
cited. The  fog,  which  had  been  partly  dis- 
sipated by  the  firing,  had  again  closed  in  so 
darkly  about  them  that  they  drew  more  closely 
together  till  the  judge  on  horseback  and  the 
accused  standing  calmly  before  him  had  but 
a  narrow  space  free  from  intrusion.  It  was 
the  most  informal  of  courts-martial,  but  all 
felt  that  the  formal  one  to  follow  would  but 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        195 

affirm  its  judgment.  It  had  no  jurisdiction, 
but  it  had  the  significance  of  prophecy. 

"  Captain  Ransome,"  the  general  cried  im- 
petuously, but  with  something  in  his  voice 
that  was  almost  entreaty,  "  if  you  can  say  any- 
thing to  put  a  better  light  upon  your  incom- 
prehensible conduct  I  beg  you  will  do  so." 

Having  recovered  his  temper  this  generous 
soldier  sought  for  something  to  justify  his  nat- 
urally sympathetic  attitude  toward  a  brave 
man  in  the  imminence  of  a  dishonorable 
death. 

"Where  is  Lieutenant  Price?"  the  captain 
said. 

That  officer  stood  forward,  his  dark  saturn- 
ine face  looking  somewhat  forbidding  under 
a  bloody  handkerchief  bound  about  his  brow. 
He  understood  the  summons  and  needed  no 
invitation  to  speak.  He  did  not  look  at  the 
captain,  but  addressed  the  general: 

"  During  the  engagement  I  discovered  the 
state  of  affairs,  and  apprised  the  commander 
of  the  battery.  I  ventured  to  urge  that  the 
firing  cease.  I  was  insulted  and  ordered  to 
my  post." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  orders  un- 
der which  I  was  acting?  "  asked  the  captain. 

"Of  any  orders  under  which    the  com- 


196    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

mander  of  the  battery  was  acting,"  the  lieu- 
tenant continued,  still  addressing  the  general, 
"  I  know  nothing." 

Captain  Ransome  felt  his  world  sink  away 
from  his  feet.  In  those  cruel  words  he  heard 
the  murmur  of  the  centuries  breaking  upon 
the  shore  of  eternity.  He  heard  the  voice  of 
doom;  it  said,  in  cold,  mechanical,  and 
measured  tones:  "Ready,  aim,  fire!"  and  he 
felt  the  bullets  tear  his  heart  to  shreds.  He 
heard  the  sound  of  the  earth  upon  his  coffin 
and  (if  the  good  God  was  so  merciful)  the 
song  of  a  bird  above  his  forgotten  grave. 
Quietly  detaching  his  sabre  from  its  supports, 
he  handed  it  up  to  the  provost-marshal. 


DE  AMBROSE  BIERCE       197 


ONE  OFFICER,  ONE  MAN 

CAPTAIN  GRAFFENREID  stood 
at  the  head  of  his  company.  The 
regiment  was  not  engaged.  It  formed 
a  part  of  the  front  line-of-battle, 
which  stretched  away  to  the  right  with  a  visi- 
ble length  of  nearly  two  miles  through  the  open 
ground.  The  left  flank  was  veiled  by  woods ; 
to  the  right  also  the  line  was  lost  to  sight,  but 
it  extended  many  miles.  A  hundred  yards  in 
rear  was  a  second  line;  behind  this,  the  re- 
serve brigades  and  divisions  in  column.  Bat- 
teries of  artillery  occupied  the  spaces  between 
and  crowned  the  low  hills.  Groups  of  horse- 
men— generals  with  their  staffs  and  escorts, 
and  field  officers  of  regiments  behind  the 
colors — broke  the  regularity  of  the  lines  and 
columns.  Numbers  of  these  figures  of  inter- 
est had  field-glasses  at  their  eyes  and  sat 
motionless,  stolidly  scanning  the  country  in 
front;  others  came  and  went  at  a  slow  canter, 
bearing  orders.  There  were  squads  of 
stretcher-bearers,  ambulances,  wagon-trains 
with  ammunition,  and  officers'  servants  in  rear 
of  all — of  all  that  was  visible — for  still  in  rear 


198    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

of  these,  along  the  roads,  extended  for  many 
miles  all  that  vast  multitude  of  non-combat- 
ants who  with  their  various  impedimenta  are 
assigned  to  the  inglorious  but  important  duty 
of  supplying  the  fighters'  many  needs. 

An  army  in  line-of-battle  awaiting  attack, 
or  prepared  to  deliver  it,  presents  strange  con- 
trasts. At  the  front  are  precision,  formality, 
fixity,  and  silence.  Toward  the  rear  these 
characteristics  are  less  and  less  conspicuous, 
and  finally,  in  point  of  space,  are  lost  alto- 
gether in  confusion,  motion  and  noise.  The 
homogeneous  becomes  heterogeneous.  De- 
finition is  lacking;  repose  is  replaced  by  an 
apparently  purposeless  activity;  harmony 
vanishes  in  hubbub,  form  in  disorder.  Com- 
motion everywhere  and  ceaseless  unrest.  The 
men  who  do  not  fight  are  never  ready. 

From  his  position  at  the  right  of  his  com- 
pany in  the  front  rank,  Captain  Graffenreid 
had  an  unobstructed  outlook  toward  the 
enemy.  A  half-mile  of  open  and  nearly  level 
ground  lay  before  him,  and  beyond  it  an  ir- 
regular wood,  covering  a  slight  acclivity;  not 
a  human  being  anywhere  visible.  He  could 
imagine  nothing  more  peaceful  than  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  pleasant  landscape  with  its 
long  stretches  of  brown  fields  over  which  the 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        199 

atmosphere  was  beginning  to  quiver  in  the 
heat  of  the  morning  sun.  Not  a  sound  came 
from  forest  or  field — not  even  the  barking  of 
a  dog  or  the  crowing  of  a  cock  at  the  half-seen 
plantation  house  on  the  crest  among  the  trees. 
Yet  every  man  in  those  miles  of  men  knew 
that  he  and  death  were  face  to  face. 

Captain  Graffenreid  had  never  in  his  life 
seen  an  armed  enemy,  and  the  war  in  which 
his  regiment  was  one  of  the  first  to  take  the 
field  was  two  years  old.  He  had  had  the 
rare  advantage  of  a  military  education,  and 
when  his  comrades  had  marched  to  the  front 
he  had  been  detached  for  administrative  serv- 
ice at  the  capital  of  his  State,  where  it  was 
thought  that  he  could  be  most  useful.  Like  a 
bad  soldier  he  protested,  and  like  a  good  one 
obeyed.  In  close  official  and  personal  rela- 
tions with  the  governor  of  his  State,  and  en- 
joying his  confidence  and  favor,  he  had  firmly 
refused  promotion  and  seen  his  juniors  elev- 
ated above  him.  Death  had  been  busy  in 
his  distant  regiment;  vacancies  among  the 
field  officers  had  occurred  again  and  again; 
but  from  a  chivalrous  feeling  that  war's  re- 
wards belonged  of  right  to  those  who  bore  the 
storm  and  stress  of  battle  he  had  held  his 
humble  rank  and  generously  advanced  the 


200    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

fortunes  of  others.  His  silent  devotion  to 
principle  had  conquered  at  last:  he  had  been 
relieved  of  his  hateful  duties  and  ordered  to 
the  front,  and  now,  untried  by  fire,  stood  in 
the  van  of  battle  in  command  of  a  company 
of  hardy  veterans,  to  whom  he  had  been  only 
a  name,  and  that  name  a  by-word.  By  none 
— not  even  by  those  of  his  brother  officers  in 
whose  favor  he  had  waived  his  rights — was 
his  devotion  to  duty  understood.  They  were 
too  busy  to  be  just;  he  was  looked  upon  as  one 
who  had  shirked  his  duty,  until  forced  unwill- 
ingly into  the  field.  Too  proud  to  explain, 
yet  not  too  insensible  to  feel,  he  could  only 
endure  and  hope. 

Of  all  the  Federal  Army  on  that  summer 
morning  none  had  accepted  battle  more  joy- 
ously than  Anderton  Graffenreid.  His  spirit 
was  buoyant,  his  faculties  were  riotous.  He 
was  in  a  state  of  mental  exaltation  and 
scarcely  could  endure  the  enemy's  tardiness  in 
advancing  to  the  attack.  To  him  this  was  op- 
portunity— for  the  result  he  cared  nothing. 
Victory  or  defeat,  as  God  might  will ;  in  one 
or  in  the  other  he  should  prove  himself  a 
soldier  and  a  hero;  he  should  vindicate  his 
right  to  the  respect  of  his  men  and  the  com- 
panionship of  his  brother  officers — to  the  con- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        201 

sideration  of  his  superiors.  How  his  heart 
leaped  in  his  breast  as  the  bugle  sounded  the 
stirring  notes  of  the  "  assembly"!  With  what 
a  light  tread,  scarcely  conscious  of  the  earth 
beneath  his  feet,  he  strode  forward  at  the  head 
of  his  company,  and  how  exultingly  he  noted 
the  tactical  dispositions  which  placed  his  regi- 
ment in  the  front  line!  And  if  perchance 
some  memory  came  to  him  of  a  pair  of  dark 
eyes  that  might  take  on  a  tenderer  light  in 
reading  the  account  of  that  day's  doings,  who 
shall  blame  him  for  the  unmartial  thought  or 
count  it  a  debasement  of  soldierly  ardor? 

Suddenly,  from  the  forest  a  half-mile  in 
front — apparently  from  among  the  upper 
branches  of  the  trees,  but  really  from  the 
ridge  beyond — rose  a  tall  column  of  white 
smoke.  A  moment  later  came  a  deep,  jarring 
explosion,  followed — almost  attended — by  a 
hideous  rushing  sound  that  seemed  to  leap 
forward  across  the  intervening  space  with  in- 
conceivable rapidity,  rising  from  whisper  to 
roar  with  too  quick  a  gradation  for  attention 
to  note  the  successive  stages  of  its  horrible 
progression!  A  visible  tremor  ran  along  the 
lines  of  men;  all  were  startled  into  motion. 
Captain  Graffenreid  dodged  and  threw  up  his 
hands  to  one  side  of  his  head,  palms  outward. 


202    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

As  he  did  so  he  heard  a  keen,  ringing  report, 
and  saw  on  a  hillside  behind  the  line  a  fierce 
roll  of  smoke  and  dust — the  shell's  explosion. 
It  had  passed  a  hundred  feet  to  his  left!  He 
heard,  or  fancied  he  heard,  a  low,  mocking 
laugh  and  turning  in  the  direction  whence  it 
came  saw  the  eyes  of  his  first  lieutenant  fixed 
upon  him  with  an  unmistakable  look  of 
amusement.  He  looked  along  the  line  of 
faces  in  the  front  ranks.  The  men  were 
laughing.  At  him?  The  thought  restored 
the  color  to  his  bloodless  face — restored  too 
much  of  it.  His  cheeks  burned  with  a  fever 
of  shame. 

The  enemy's  shot  was  not  answered :  the  of- 
ficer in  command  at  that  exposed  part  of  the 
line  had  evidently  no  desire  to  provoke  a  can- 
nonade. For  the  forbearance  Captain  Graf- 
fenreid  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  gratitude. 
He  had  not  known  that  the  flight  of  a  pro- 
jectile was  a  phenomenon  of  so  appalling 
character.  His  conception  of  war  had  al- 
ready undergone  a  profound  change,  and  he 
was  conscious  that  his  new  feeling  was  mani- 
festing itself  in  visible  perturbation.  His 
blood  was  boiling  in  his  veins;  he  had  a  chok- 
ing sensation  and  felt  that  if  he  had  a  com- 
mand to  give  it  would  be  inaudible,  or  at  least 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        203 

unintelligible.  The  hand  in  which  he  held 
his  sword  trembled ;  the  other  moved  automat- 
ically, clutching  at  various  parts  of  his  cloth- 
ing. He  found  a  difficulty  in  standing  still 
and  fancied  that  his  men  observed  it.  Was  it 
fear?  He  feared  it  was. 

From  somewhere  away  to  the  right  came, 
as  the  wind  served,  a  low,  intermittent  mur- 
mur like  that  of  ocean  in  a  storm — like  that 
of  a  distant  railway  train — like  that  of  wind 
among  the  pines — three  sounds  so  nearly  alike 
that  the  ear,  unaided  by  the  judgment,  cannot 
distinguish  them  one  from  another.  The  eyes 
of  the  troops  were  drawn  in  that  direction; 
the  mounted  officers  turned  their  field-glasses 
that  way.  Mingled  with  the  sound  was  an  ir- 
regular throbbing.  He  thought  it,  at  first, 
the  beating  of  his  fevered  blood  in  his  ears; 
next,  the  distant  tapping  of  a  bass  drum. 

"The  ball  is  opened  on  the  right  flank," 
said  an  officer. 

Captain  Graffenreid  understood:  the 
sounds  were  musketry  and  artillery.  He 
nodded  and  tried  to  smile.  There  was  ap- 
parently nothing  infectious  in  the  smile. 

Presently  a  light  line  of  blue  smoke-puffs 
broke  out  along  the  edge  of  the  wood  in  front, 
succeeded  by  a  crackle  of  rifles.  There  were 


204    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

keen,  sharp  hissings  in  the  air,  terminating 
abruptly  with  a  thump  near  by.  The  man  at 
Captain  Graffenreid's  side  dropped  his  rifle; 
his  knees  gave  way  and  he  pitched  awkwardly 
forward,  falling  upon  his  face.  Somebody 
shouted  "  Lie  down!"  and  the  dead  man  was 
hardly  distinguishable  from  the  living.  It 
looked  as  if  those  few  rifle-shots  had  slain  ten 
thousand  men.  Only  the  field  officers  re- 
mained erect;  their  concession  to  the  emer- 
gency consisted  in  dismounting  and  sending 
their  horses  to  the  shelter  of  the  low  hills  im- 
mediately in  rear. 

Captain  Graffenreid  lay  alongside  the  dead 
man,  from  beneath  whose  breast  flowed  a  little 
rill  of  blood.  It  had  a  faint,  sweetish  odor 
that  sickened  him.  The  face  was  crushed 
into  the  earth  and  flattened.  It  looked  yellow 
already,  and  was  repulsive.  Nothing  sug- 
gested the  glory  of  a  soldier's  death  nor  miti- 
gated the  loathsomeness  of  the  incident.  He 
could  not  turn  his  back  upon  the  body  without 
facing  away  from  his  company. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  forest,  where  all 
again  was  silent.  He  tried  to  imagine  what 
was  going  on  there — the  lines  of  troops  form- 
ing to  attack,  the  guns  being  pushed  forward 
by  hand  to  the  edge  of  the  open.  He  fancied 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        205 

he  could  see  their  black  muzzles  protruding 
from  the  undergrowth,  ready  to  deliver  their 
storm  of  missiles — such  missiles  as  the  one 
whose  shriek  had  so  unsettled  his  nerves.  The 
distension  of  his  eyes  became  painful;  a  mist 
seemed  to  gather  before  them;  he  could  no 
longer  see  across  the  field,  yet  would  not  with- 
draw his  gaze  lest  he  see  the  dead  man  at  his 
side. 

The  fire  of  battle  was  not  now  burning  very 
brightly  in  this  warrior's  soul.  From  inac- 
tion had  come  introspection.  He  sought 
rather  to  analyze  his  feelings  than  distinguish 
himself  by  courage  and  devotion.  The  result 
was  profoundly  disappointing.  He  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands  and  groaned 
aloud. 

The  hoarse  murmur  of  battle  grew  more 
and  more  distinct  upon  the  right;  the  murmur 
had,  indeed,  become  a  roar,  the  throbbing,  a 
thunder.  The  sounds  had  worked  round 
obliquely  to  the  front;  evidently  the  enemy's 
left  was  being  driven  back,  and  the  propitious 
moment  to  move  against  the  salient  angle  of 
his  line  would  soon  arrive.  The  silence  and 
mystery  in  front  were  ominous;  all  felt  that 
they  boded  evil  to  the  assailants. 

Behind  the  prostrate  lines  sounded  the  hoof- 


206    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

beats  of  galloping  horses;  the  men  turned  to 
look.  A  dozen  staff  officers  were  riding  to 
the  various  brigade  and  regimental  com- 
manders, who  had  remounted.  A  moment 
more  and  there  was  a  chorus  of  voices,  all  ut- 
tering out  of  time  the  same  words — "Atten- 
tion, battalion!"  The  men  sprang  to  their 
feet  and  were  aligned  by  the  company  com- 
manders. They  awaited  the  word  "  for- 
ward " — awaited,  too,  with  beating  hearts  and 
set  teeth  the  gusts  of  lead  and  iron  that  were 
to  smite  them  at  their  first  movement  in  obedi- 
ence to  that  word.  The  word  was  not  given ; 
the  tempest  did  not  break  out.  The  delay  was 
hideous,  maddening!  It  unnerved  like  a 
respite  at  the  guillotine. 

Captain  Graffenreid  stood  at  the  head  of 
his  company,  the  dead  man  at  his  feet.  He 
heard  the  battle  on  the  right — rattle  and  crash 
of  musketry,  ceaseless  thunder  of  cannon, 
desultory  cheers  of  invisible  combatants.  He 
marked  ascending  clouds  of  smoke  from  dis- 
tant forests.  He  noted  the  sinister  silence  of 
the  forest  in  front.  These  contrasting  ex- 
tremes affected  the  whole  range  of  his  sensi- 
bilities. The  strain  upon  his  nervous  organ- 
ization was  insupportable.  He  grew  hot  and 
cold  by  turns.  He  panted  like  a  dog,  and 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        207 

then  forgot  to  breathe  until  reminded  by 
vertigo. 

Suddenly  he  grew  calm.  Glancing  down- 
ward, his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  his  naked 
sword,  as  he  held  it,  point  to  earth.  Fore- 
shortened to  his  view,  it  resembled  somewhat, 
he  thought,  the  short  heavy  blade  of  the 
ancient  Roman.  The  fancy  was  full  of  sug- 
gestion, malign,  fateful,  heroic! 

The  sergeant  in  the  rear  rank,  immediately 
behind  Captain  Graffenreid,  now  observed  a 
strange  sight.  His  attention  drawn  by  an  un- 
common movement  made  by  the  captain — a 
sudden  reaching  forward  of  the  hands  and 
their  energetic  withdrawal,  throwing  the 
elbows  out,  as  in  pulling  an  oar — he  saw 
spring  from  between  the  officer's  shoulders  a 
bright  point  of  metal  which  prolonged  itself 
outward,  nearly  a  half-arm's  length — a  blade! 
It  was  faintly  streaked  with  crimson,  and  its 
point  approached  so  near  to  the  sergeant's 
breast,  and  with  so  quick  a  movement,  that  he 
shrank  backward  in  alarm.  That  moment 
Captain  Graffenreid  pitched  heavily  forward 
upon  the  dead  man  and  died. 

A  week  later  the  major-general  command- 
ing the  left  corps  of  the  Federal  Army  sub- 
mitted the  following  official  report: 


208    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"SIR:  I  have  the  honor  to  report,  with  re- 
gard to  the  action  of  the  i9th  inst,  that  owing 
to  the  enemy's  withdrawal  from  my  front  to 
reinforce  his  beaten  left,  my  command  was 
not  seriously  engaged.  My  loss  was  as  fol- 
lows: Killed,  one  officer,  one  man." 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        209 
GEORGE  THURSTON 

THREE  INCIDENTS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  MAN 

GEORGE  THURSTON  was  a  first 
lieutenant  and  aide-de-camp  on  the 
staff  of  Colonel  B  rough,  command- 
ing a  Federal  brigade.  Colonel 
B  rough  was  only  temporarily  in  command,  as 
senior  colonel,  the  brigadier-general  having 
been  severely  wounded  and  granted  a  leave  of 
absence  to  recover.  Lieutenant  Thurston 
was,  I  believe,  of  Colonel  B  rough's  regiment, 
to  which,  with  his  chief,  he  would  naturally 
have  been  relegated  had  he  lived  till  our 
brigade  commander's  recovery.  The  aide 
whose  place  Thurston  took  had  been  killed  in 
battle;  Thurston's  advent  among  us  was  the 
only  change  in  the  personnel  of  our  staff  con- 
sequent upon  the  change  in  commanders. 
We  did  not  like  him ;  he  was  unsocial.  This, 
however,  was  more  observed  by  others  than 
by  me.  Whether  in  camp  or  on  the  march, 
in  barracks,  in  tents,  or  en  bivouac,  my  duties 
as  topographical  engineer  kept  me  working 
like  a  beaver — all  day  in  the  saddle  and  half 


210    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  night  at  my  drawing-table,  platting  my 
surveys.  It  was  hazardous  work;  the  nearer 
to  the  enemy's  lines  I  could  penetrate,  the 
more  valuable  were  my  field  notes  and  the  re- 
sulting maps.  It  was  a  business  in  which  the 
lives  of  men  counted  as  nothing  against  the 
chance  of  defining  a  road  or  sketching  a 
bridge.  Whole  squadrons  of  cavalry  escort 
had  sometimes  to  be  sent  thundering  against  a 
powerful  infantry  outpost  in  order  that  the 
brief  time  between  the  charge  and  the  in- 
evitable retreat  might  be  utilized  in  sounding 
a  ford  or  determining  the  point  of  intersection 
of  two  roads. 

In  some  of  the  dark  corners  of  England  and 
Wales  they  have  an  immemorial  custom  of 
"beating  the  bounds"  of  the  parish.  On  a 
certain  day  of  the  year  the  whole  population 
turns  out  and  travels  in  procession  from  one 
landmark  to  another  on  the  boundary  line. 
At  the  most  important  points  lads  are  soundly 
beaten  with  rods  to  make  them  remember  the 
place  in  after  life.  They  become  authorities. 
Our  frequent  engagements  with  the  Con- 
federate outposts,  patrols,  and  scouting  parties 
had,  incidentally,  the  same  educating  value; 
they  fixed  in  my  memory  a  vivid  and  appar- 
ently imperishable  picture  of  the  locality — a 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        211 

picture  serving  instead  of  accurate  field  notes, 
which,  indeed,  it  was  not  always  convenient  to 
take,  with  carbines  cracking,  sabers  clashing, 
and  horses  plunging  all  about.  These 
spirited  encounters  were  observations  entered 
in  red. 

One  morning  as  I  set  out  at  the  head  of  my 
escort  on  an  expedition  of  more  than  the  usual 
hazard  Lieutenant  Thurston  rode  up  along- 
side and  asked  if  I  had  any  objection  to  his 
accompanying  me,  the  colonel  commanding 
having  given  him  permission. 

"None  whatever,"  I  replied  rather  gruffly; 
"but  in  what  capacity  will  you  go?  You  are 
not  a  topographical  engineer,  and  Captain 
Burling  commands  my  escort." 

"I  will  go  as  a  spectator,"  he  said.  Re- 
moving his  sword-belt  and  taking  the  pistols 
from  his  holsters  he  handed  them  to  his  serv- 
ant, who  took  them  back  to  headquarters.  I 
realized  the  brutality  of  my  remark,  but  not 
clearly  seeing  my  way  to  an  apology,  said 
nothing. 

That  afternoon  we  encountered  a  whole 
regiment  of  the  enemy's  cavalry  in  line  and  a 
field-piece  that  dominated  a  straight  mile  of 
the  turnpike  by  which  we  had  approached. 
My  escort  fought  deployed  in  the  woods  on 


212    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

both  sides,  but  Thurston  remained  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  road,  which  at  intervals  of  a  few  sec- 
onds was  swept  by  gusts  of  grape  and  canister 
that  tore  the  air  wide  open  as  they  passed. 
He  had  dropped  the  rein  on  the  neck  of  his 
horse  and  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  saddle,  with 
folded  arms.  Soon  he  was  down,  his  horse 
torn  to  pieces.  From  the  side  of  the  road,  my 
pencil  and  field  book  idle,  my  duty  forgotten, 
I  watched  him  slowly  disengaging  himself 
from  the  wreck  and  rising.  At  that  instant, 
the  cannon  having  ceased  firing,  a  burly  Con- 
federate trooper  on  a  spirited  horse  dashed 
like  a  thunderbolt  down  the  road  with  drawn 
saber.  Thurston  saw  him  coming,  drew  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height,  and  again  folded 
his  arms.  He  was  too  brave  to  retreat  before 
the  word,  and  my  uncivil  words  had  disarmed 
him.  He  was  a  spectator.  Another  moment 
and  he  would  have  been  split  like  a  mackerel, 
but  a  blessed  bullet  tumbled  his  assailant  into 
the  dusty  road  so  near  that  the  impetus  sent 
the  body  rolling  to  Thurston's  feet.  That 
evening,  while  platting  my  hasty  survey,  I 
found  time  to  frame  an  apology,  which  I 
think  took  the  rude,  primitive  form  of  a  con- 
fession that  I  had  spoken  like  a  malicious 
idiot. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        213 

A  few  weeks  later  a  part  of  our  army  made 
an  assault  upon  the  enemy's  left.  The  attack, 
which  was  made  upon  an  unknown  position 
and  across  unfamiliar  ground,  was  led  by  our 
brigade.  The  ground  was  so  broken  and  the 
underbrush  so  thick  that  all  mounted  officers 
and  men  were  compelled  to  fight  on  foot — the 
brigade  commander  and  his  staff  included.  In 
the  melee  Thurston  was  parted  from  the  rest 
of  us,  and  we  found  him,  horribly  wounded, 
only  when  we  had  taken  the  enemy's  last  de- 
fense. He  was  some  months  in  hospital  at 
Nashville,  Tennessee,  but  finally  rejoined  us. 
He  said  little  about  his  misadventure,  except 
that  he  had  been  bewildered  and  had  strayed 
into  the  enemy's  lines  and  been  shot  down ;  but 
from  one  of  his  captors,  whom  we  in  turn  had 
captured,  we  learned  the  particulars.  "  He 
came  walking  right  upon  us  as  we  lay  in  line," 
said  this  man.  "  A  whole  company  of  us  in- 
stantly sprang  up  and  leveled  our  rifles  at  hist 
breast,  some  of  them  almost  touching  him. 
'Throw  down  that  sword  and  surrender,  you 
damned  Yank!'  shouted  some  one  in  author- 
ity. The  fellow  ran  his  eyes  along  the  line  of 
rifle  barrels,  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast, 
his  right  hand  still  clutching  his  sword,  and 
deliberately  replied,  '  I  will  not.'  If  we  had 


214    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

all  fired  he  would  have  been  torn  to  shreds. 
Some  of  us  didn't.  I  didn't,  for  one ;  nothing 
could  have  induced  me." 

When  one  is  tranquilly  looking  death  in  the 
eye  and  refusing  him  any  concession  one 
naturally  has  a  good  opinion  of  one's  self.  I 
don't  know  if  it  was  this  feeling  that  in  Thurs- 
ton  found  expression  in  a  stiffish  attitude  and 
folded  arms ;  at  the  mess  table  one  day,  in  his 
absence,  another  explanation  was  suggested  by 
our  quartermaster,  an  irreclaimable  stam- 
merer when  the  wine  was  in :  "  It's  h — is 
w — ay  of  m-m-mastering  a  c-c-consti-t-tu- 
tional  t-tendency  to  r — un  aw — ay." 

"What!"  I  flamed  out,  indignantly  rising; 
"you  intimate  that  Thurston  is  a  coward — 
and  in  his  absence?" 

"If  he  w — ere  a  cow — wow-ard  h — e 
w — wouldn't  t-try  to  m-m-master  it ;  and  if  he 
w — ere  p-p resent  I  w — wouldn't  d-d-dare  to 
d-d-discuss  it,"  was  the  mollifying  reply. 

This  intrepid  man,  George  Thurston,  died 
an  ignoble  death.  The  brigade  was  in  camp, 
with  headquarters  in  a  grove  of  immense  trees. 
To  an  upper  branch  of  one  of  these  a  venture- 
some climber  had  attached  the  two  ends  of  a 
long  rope  and  made  a  swing  with  a  length  of 
not  less  than  one  hundred  feet.  Plunging 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        215 

downward  from  a  height  of  fifty  feet,  along 
the  arc  of  a  circle  with  such  a  radius,  soaring 
to  an  equal  altitude,  pausing  for  one  breath- 
less instant,  then  sweeping  dizzily  backward 
— no  one  who  has  not  tried  it  can  conceive  the 
terrors  of  such  sport  to  the  novice.  Thurston 
came  out  of  his  tent  one  day  and  asked  for  in- 
struction in  the  mystery  of  propelling  the 
swing — the  art  of  rising  and  sitting,  which 
every  boy  has  mastered.  In  a  few  moments 
he  had  acquired  the  trick  and  was  swinging 
higher  than  the  most  experienced  of  us  had 
dared.  We  shuddered  to  look  at  his  fearful 
flights. 

"  St-t-top  him,"  said  the  quartermaster, 
snailing  lazily  along  from  the  mess-tent, 
where  he  had  been  lunching;  "  h — e  d-doesn't 
know  that  if  h — e  g-g-goes  c-clear  over  h — e'll 
w — ind  up  the  sw — ing." 

With  such  energy  was  that  strong  man  can- 
nonading himself  through  the  air  that  at  each 
extremity  of  his  increasing  arc  his  body, 
standing  in  the  swing,  was  almost  horizontal. 
Should  he  once  pass  above  the  level  of  the 
rope's  attachment  he  would  be  lost;  the  rope 
would  slacken  and  he  would  fall  vertically  to 
a  point  as  far  below  as  he  had  gone  above, 
and  then  the  sudden  tension  of  the  rope  would 


216    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

wrest  it  from  his  hands.  All  saw  the  peril — 
all  cried  out  to  him  to  desist,  and  gesticulated 
at  him  as,  indistinct  and  with  a  noise  like  the 
rush  of  a  cannon  shot  in  flight,  he  swept  past 
us  through  the  lower  reaches  of  his  hideous 
oscillation.  A  woman  standing  at  a  little  dis- 
tance away  fainted  and  fell  unobserved. 
Men  from  the  camp  of  a  regiment  near  by  ran 
in  crowds  to  see,  all  shouting.  Suddenly,  as 
Thurston  was  on  his  upward  curve,  the  shouts 
all  ceased. 

Thurston  and  the  swing  had  parted — that  is 
all  that  can  be  known;  both  hands  at  once 
had  released  the  rope.  The  impetus  of  the 
light  swing  exhausted,  it  was  falling  back; 
the  man's  momentum  was  carrying  him,  al- 
most erect,  upward  and  forward,  no  longer  in 
his  arc,  but  with  an  outward  curve.  It  could 
have  been  but  an  instant,  yet  it  seemed  an  age. 
I  cried  out,  or  thought  I  cried  out:  "My 
God!  will  he  never  stop  going  up?"  He 
passed  close  to  the  branch  of  a  tree.  I  re- 
member a  feeling  of  delight  as  I  thought  he 
would  clutch  it  and  save  himself.  I  specu- 
lated on  the  possibility  of  it  sustaining  his 
weight.  He  passed  above  it,  and  from  my 
point  of  view  was  sharply  outlined  against  the 
blue.  At  this  distance  of  many  years  I  can 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        217 

distinctly  recall  that  image  of  a  man  in  the 
sky,  its  head  erect,  its  feet  close  together,  its 
hands — I  do  not  see  its  hands.  All  at  once, 
with  astonishing  suddenness  and  rapidity,  it 
turns  clear  over  and  pitches  downward. 
There  is  another  cry  from  the  crowd,  which 
has  rushed  instinctively  forward.  The  man 
has  become  merely  a  whirling  object,  mostly 
legs.  Then  there  is  an  indescribable  sound — 
the  sound  of  an  impact  that  shakes  the  earth, 
and  these  men,  familiar  with  death  in  its  most 
awful  aspects,  turn  sick.  Many  walk  un- 
steadily away  from  the  spot;  others  support 
themselves  against  the  trunks  of  trees  or  sit  at 
the  roots.  Death  has  taken  an  unfair  advant- 
age ;  he  has  struck  with  an  unfamiliar  weapon ; 
he  has  executed  a  new  and  disquieting  strata- 
gem. We  did  not  know  that  he  had  so  ghastly 
resources,  possibilities  of  terror  so  dismal. 

Thurston's  body  lay  on  its  back.  One  leg, 
bent  beneath,  was  broken  above  the  knee  and 
the  bone  driven  into  the  earth.  The  abdomen 
had  burst;  the  bowels  protruded.  The  neck 
was  broken. 

The  arms  were  folded  tightly  across  the 
breast. 


218    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

THE  time,  a  pleasant  Sunday  after- 
noon in  the  early  autumn  of  1861. 
The  place,  a  forest's  heart  in  the 
mountain    region   of   southwestern 
Virginia.     Private  Grayrock  of  the  Federal 
Army  is  discovered  seated  comfortably  at  the 
root  of  a  great  pine  tree,  against  which  he 
leans,  his  legs  extended  straight  along  the 
ground,  his  rifle  lying  across  his  thighs,  his 
hands  (clasped  in  order  that  they  may  not  fall 
away  to  his  sides)  resting  upon  the  barrel  of 
the  weapon.    The  contact  of  the  back  of  his 
head  with  the  tree  has  pushed  his  cap  down- 
ward over  his  eyes,  almost  concealing  them; 
one  seeing  him  would  say  that  he  slept. 

Private  Grayrock  did  not  sleep;  to  have 
done  so  would  have  imperiled  the  interests  of 
the  United  States,  for  he  was  a  long  way  out- 
side the  lines  and  subject  to  capture  or  death 
at  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Moreover,  he  was 
in  a  frame  of  mind  unfavorable  to  repose. 
The  cause  of  his  perturbation  of  spirit  was 
this:  during  the  previous  night  he  had  served 
on  the  picket-guard,  and  had  been  posted  as  a 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        219 

sentinel  in  this  very  forest.  The  night  was 
clear,  though  moonless,  but  in  the  gloom  of 
the  wood  the  darkness  was  deep.  Grayrock's 
post  was  at  a  considerable  distance  from  those 
to  right  and  left,  for  the  pickets  had  been 
thrown  out  a  needless  distance  from  the  camp, 
making  the  line  too  long  for  the  force  detailed 
to  occupy  it.  The  war  was  young,  and 
military  camps  entertained  the  error  that 
while  sleeping  they  were  better  protected  by 
thin  lines  a  long  way  out  toward  the  enemy 
than  by  thicker  ones  close  in.  And  surely 
they  needed  as  long  notice  as  possible  of  an 
enemy's  approach,  for  they  were  at  that  time 
addicted  to  the  practice  of  undressing — than 
which  nothing  could  be  more  unsoldierly. 
On  the  morning  of  the  memorable  6th  of 
April,  at  Shiloh,  many  of  Grant's  men  when 
spitted  on  Confederate  bayonets  were  as  naked 
as  civilians;  but  it  should  be  allowed  that  this 
was  not  because  of  any  defect  in  their  picket 
line.  Their  error  was  of  another  sort:  they 
had  no  pickets.  This  is  perhaps  a  vain 
digression.  I  should  not  care  to  undertake  to 
interest  the  reader  in  the  fate  of  an  army; 
what  we  have  here  to  consider  is  that  of  Pri- 
vate Grayrock. 

For  two  hours  after  he  had  been  left  at  his 


220    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

lonely  post  that  Saturday  night  he  stood  stock- 
still,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree, 
staring  into  the  darkness  in  his  front  and  try- 
ing to  recognize  known  objects;  for  he  had 
been  posted  at  the  same  spot  during  the  day. 
But  all  was  now  different;  he  saw  nothing  in 
detail,  but  only  groups  of  things,  whose 
shapes,  not  observed  when  there  was  some- 
thing more  of  them  to  observe,  were  now 
unfamiliar.  They  seemed  not  to  have  been 
there  before.  A  landscape  that  is  all  trees  and 
undergrowth,  moreover,  lacks  definition,  is 
confused  and  without  accentuated  points  upon 
which  attention  can  gain  a  foothold.  Add  the 
gloom  of  a  moonless  night,  and  something 
more  than  great  natural  intelligence  and  a  city 
education  is  required  to  preserve  one's  know- 
ledge of  direction.  And  that  is  how  it  oc- 
curred that  Private  Grayrock,  after  vigilantly 
watching  the  spaces  in  his  front  and  then 
imprudently  executing  a  circumspection  of 
his  whole  dimly  visible  environment  (silently 
walking  around  his  tree  to  accomplish  it)  lost 
his  bearings  and  seriously  impaired  his  use- 
fulness as  a  sentinel.  Lost  at  his  post — unable 
to  say  in  which  direction  to  look  for  an 
enemy's  approach,  and  in  which  lay  the  sleep- 
ing camp  for  whose  security  he  was  account- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        221 

able  with  his  life — conscious,  too,  of  many 
another  awkward  feature  of  the  situation  and 
of  considerations  affecting  his  own  safety, 
Private  Grayrock  was  profoundly  disquieted. 
Nor  was  he  given  time  to  recover  his  tran- 
quillity, for  almost  at  the  moment  that  he 
realized  his  awkward  predicament  he  heard  a 
stir  of  leaves  and  a  snap  of  fallen  twigs,  and 
turning  with  a  stilled  heart  in  the  direction 
whence  it  came,  saw  in  the  gloom  the  indis- 
tinct outlines  of  a  human  figure. 

"Halt!"  shouted  Private  Grayrock,  per- 
emptorily as  in  duty  bound,  backing  up  the 
command  with  the  sharp  metallic  snap  of  his 
cocking  rifle — "who  goes  there?" 

There  was  no  answer;  at  least  there  was  an 
instant's  hesitation,  and  the  answer,  if  it  came, 
was  lost  in  the  report  of  the  sentinel's  rifle.  In 
the  silence  of  the  night  and  the  forest  the 
sound  was  deafening,  and  hardly  had  it  died 
away  when  it  was  repeated  by  the  pieces 
of  the  pickets  to  right  and  left,  a  sym- 
pathetic fusillade.  For  two  hours  every  un- 
converted civilian  of  them  had  been  evolving 
enemies  from  his  imagination,  and  peopling 
the  woods  in  his  front  with  them,  and  Gray- 
rock's  shot  had  started  the  whole  encroaching 
host  into  visible  existence.  Having  fired,  all 


222    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

retreated,  breathless,  to  the  reserves — all  but 
Grayrock,  who  did  not  know  in  what  direc- 
tion to  retreat.  When,  no  enemy  appearing, 
the  roused  camp  two  miles  away  had  un- 
dressed and  got  itself  into  bed  again,  and  the 
picket  line  was  cautiously  re-established,  he 
was  discovered  bravely  holding  his  ground, 
and  was  complimented  by  the  officer  of  the 
guard  as  the  one  soldier  of  that  devoted  band 
who  could  rightly  be  considered  the  moral 
equivalent  of  that  uncommon  unit  of  value, 
"  a  whoop  in  hell." 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  Grayrock  had 
made  a  close  but  unavailing  search  for  the 
mortal  part  of  the  intruder  at  whom  he  had 
fired,  and  whom  he  had  a  marksman's  in- 
tuitive sense  of  having  hit;  for  he  was  one  of 
those  born  experts  who  shoot  without  aim  by 
an  instinctive  sense  of  direction,  and  are 
nearly  as  dangerous  by  night  as  by  day.  Dur- 
ing a  full  half  of  his  twenty-four  years  he  had 
been  a  terror  to  the  targets  of  all  the  shooting- 
galleries  in  three  cities.  Unable  now  to  pro- 
duce his  dead  game  he  had  the  discretion  to 
hold  his  tongue,  and  was  glad  to  observe  in 
his  officer  and  comrades  the  natural  assump- 
tion that  not  having  run  away  he  had  seen 
nothing  hostile.  His  "honorable  mention" 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        223 

had  been  earned  by  not  running  away  any- 
how. 

Nevertheless,  Private  Grayrock  was  far 
from  satisfied  with  the  night's  adventure,  and 
when  the  next  day  he  made  some  fair  enough 
pretext  to  apply  for  a  pass  to  go  outside  the 
lines,  and  the  general  commanding  promptly 
granted  it  in  recognition  of  his  bravery  the 
night  before,  he  passed  out  at  the  point  where 
that  had  been  displayed.  Telling  the  sentinel 
then  on  duty  there  that  he  had  lost  something, 
— which  was  true  enough — he  renewed  the 
search  for  the  person  whom  he  supposed 
himself  to  have  shot,  and  whom  if  only 
wounded  he  hoped  to  trail  by  the  blood. 
He  was  no  more  successful  by  day- 
light than  he  had  been  in  the  darkness,  and 
after  covering  a  wide  area  and  boldly  pene- 
trating a  long  distance  into  "the  Confed- 
eracy" he  gave  up  the  search,  somewhat 
fatigued,  seated  himself  at  the  root  of  the 
great  pine  tree,  where  we  have  seen  him,  and 
indulged  his  disappointment. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  Grayrock's  was 
the  chagrin  of  a  cruel  nature  balked  of  its 
bloody  deed.  In  the  clear  large  eyes,  finely 
wrought  lips,  and  broad  forehead  of  that 
young  man  one  could  read  quite  another  story, 


224    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

and  in  point  of  fact  his  character  was  a  singu- 
larly felicitous  compound  of  boldness  and 
sensibility,  courage  and  conscience. 

"I  find  myself  disappointed,"  he  said  to 
himself,  sitting  there  at  the  bottom  of  the 
golden  haze  submerging  the  forest  like  a 
subtler  sea — "disappointed  in  failing  to  dis- 
cover a  fellow-man  dead  by  my  hand!  Do  I 
then  really  wish  that  I  had  taken  life  in  the 
performance  of  a  duty  as  well  performed 
without?  What  more  could  I  wish?  If  any 
danger  threatened,  my  shot  averted  it ;  that  is 
what  I  was  there  to  do.  No,  I  am  glad  indeed 
if  no  human  life  was  needlessly  extinguished 
by  me.  But  I  am  in  a  false  position.  I  have 
suffered  myself  to  be  complimented  by  my 
officers  and  envied  by  my  comrades.  The 
camp  is  ringing  with  praise  of  my  courage. 
That  is  not  just;  I  know  myself  courageous, 
but  this  praise  is  for  specific  acts  which  I  did 
not  perform,  or  performed — otherwise.  It  is 
believed  that  I  remained  at  my  post  bravely, 
without  firing,  whereas  it  was  I  who  began 
the  fusillade,  and  I  did  not  retreat  in  the  gen- 
eral alarm  because  bewildered.  What,  then, 
shall  I  do?  Explain  that  I  saw  an  enemy  and 
fired?  They  have  all  said  that  of  themselves, 
yet  none  believes  it.  Shall  I  tell  a  truth 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        225 

which,  discrediting  my  courage,  will  have  the 
effect  of  a  lie?  Ugh!  it  is  an  ugly  business 
altogether.  I  wish  to  God  I  could  find  my 
man!" 

And  so  wishing,  Private  Grayrock,  over- 
come at  last  by  the  languor  of  the  afternoon 
and  lulled  by  the  stilly  sounds  of  insects  dron- 
ing and  prosing  in  certain  fragrant  shrubs,  so 
far  forgot  the  interests  of  the  United  States 
as  to  fall  asleep  and  expose  himself  to  capture. 
And  sleeping  he  dreamed. 

He  thought  himself  a  boy,  living  in  a  far, 
fair  land  by  the  border  of  a  great  river  upon 
which  the  tall  steamboats  moved  grandly  up 
and  down  beneath  their  towering  evolutions 
of  black  smoke,  which  announced  them  long 
before  they  had  rounded  the  bends  and 
marked  their  movements  when  miles  out  of 
sight.  With  him  always,  at  his  side  as  he 
watched  them,  was  one  to  whom  he  gave  his 
heart  and  soul  in  love — a  twin  brother.  To- 
gether they  strolled  along  the  banks  of  the 
stream;  together  explored  the  fields  lying 
farther  away  from  it,  and  gathered  pungent 
mints  and  sticks  of  fragrant  sassafras  in  the 
hills  overlooking  all — beyond  which  lay  the 
Realm  of  Conjecture,  and  from  which,  look- 
ing southward  across  the  great  river,  they 


226    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

caught  glimpses  of  the  Enchanted  Land. 
Hand  in  hand  and  heart  in  heart  they  two,  the 
only  children  of  a  widowed  mother,  walked 
in  paths  of  light  through  valleys  of  peace, 
seeing  new  things  under  a  new  sun.  And 
through  all  the  golden  days  floated  one  un- 
ceasing sound — the  rich,  thrilling  melody  of 
a  mocking-bird  in  a  cage  by  the  cottage  door. 
It  pervaded  and  possessed  all  the  spiritual  in- 
tervals of  the  dream,  like  a  musical  benedic- 
tion. The  joyous  bird  was  always  in  song; 
its  infinitely  various  notes  seemed  to  flow  from 
its  throat,  effortless,  in  bubbles  and  rills  at 
each  heart-beat,  like  the  waters  of  a  pulsing 
spring.  That  fresh,  clear  melody  seemed,  in- 
deed, the  spirit  of  the  scene,  the  meaning  and 
interpretation  to  sense  of  the  mysteries  of  life 
and  love. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  the  days  of  the 
dream  grew  dark  with  sorrow  in  a  rain  of 
tears.  The  good  mother  was  dead,  the 
meadowside  home  by  the  great  river  was 
broken  up,  and  the  brothers  were  parted  be- 
tween two  of  their  kinsmen.  William  (the 
dreamer)  went  to  live  in  a  populous  city  in  the 
Realm  of  Conjecture,  and  John,  crossing  the 
river  into  the  Enchanted  Land,  was  taken  to 
a  distant  region  whose  people  in  their  lives 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       227 

and  ways  were  said  to  be  strange  and  wicked. 
To  him,  in  the  distribution  of  the  dead 
mother's  estate,  had  fallen  all  that  they 
deemed  of  value — the  mocking-bird.  They 
could  be  divided,  but  it  could  not,  so  it 
was  carried  away  into  the  strange  country, 
and  the  world  of  William  knew  it  no  more 
forever.  Yet  still  through  the  aftertime  of 
his  loneliness  its  song  filled  all  the  dream,  and 
seemed  always  sounding  in  his  ear  and  in  his 
heart. 

The  kinsmen  who  had  adopted  the  boys 
were  enemies,  holding  no  communication. 
For  a  time  letters  full  of  boyish  bravado  and 
boastful  narratives  of  the  new  and  larger  ex- 
perience— grotesque  descriptions  of  their 
widening  lives  and  the  new  worlds  they  had 
conquered — passed  between  them;  but  these 
gradually  became  less  frequent,  and  with  Wil- 
liam's removal  to  another  and  greater  city 
ceased  altogether.  But  ever  through  it  all  ran 
the  song  of  the  mocking-bird,  and  when  the 
dreamer  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  through 
the  vistas  of  the  pine  forest  the  cessation  of  its 
music  first  apprised  him  that  he  was  awake. 

The  sun  was  low  and  red  in  the  west;  the 
level  rays  projected  from  the  trunk  of  each 
giant  pine  a  wall  of  shadow  traversing  the 


228    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

golden  haze  to  eastward  until  light  and  shade 
were  blended  in  undistinguishable  blue. 

Private  Grayrock  rose  to  his  feet,  looked 
cautiously  about  him,  shouldered  his  rifle  and 
set  off  toward  camp.  He  had  gone  perhaps 
a  half-mile,  and  was  passing  a  thicket  of 
laurel,  when  a  bird  rose  from  the  midst  of  it 
and  perching  on  the  branch  of  a  tree  above, 
poured  from  its  joyous  breast  so  inexhaustible 
floods  of  song  as  but  one  of  all  God's  creatures 
can  utter  in  His  praise.  There  was  little  in 
that — it  was  only  to  open  the  bill  and  breathe; 
yet  the  man  stopped  as  if  struck — stopped  and 
let  fall  his  rifle,  looked  upward  at  the  bird, 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands  and  wept  like 
a  child!  For  the  moment  he  was,  indeed,  a 
child,  in  spirit  and  in  memory,  dwelling  again 
by  the  great  river,  over-against  the  Enchanted 
Land!  Then  with  an  effort  of  the  will  he 
pulled  himself  together,  picked  up  his  weapon 
and  audibly  damning  himself  for  an  idiot 
strode  on.  Passing  an  opening  that  reached 
into  the  heart  of  the  little  thicket  he  looked  in, 
and  there,  supine  upon  the  earth,  its  arms  all 
abroad,  its  gray  uniform  stained  with  a  single 
spot  of  blood  upon  the  breast,  its  white  face 
turned  sharply  upward  and  backward,  lay  the 
image  of  himself! — the  body  of  John  Gray- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        229 

rock,   dead  of  a  gunshot  wound,  and   still 
warm!    He  had  found  his  man. 

As  the  unfortunate  soldier  knelt  beside  that 
masterwork  of  civil  war  the  shrilling  bird 
upon  the  bough  overhead  stilled  her  song  and, 
flushed  with  sunset's  crimson  glory,  glided 
silently  away  through  the  solemn  spaces  of  the 
wood.  At  roll-call  that  evening  in  the  Fed- 
eral camp  the  name  William  Grayrock 
brought  no  response,  nor  ever  again  there- 
after. 


CIVILIANS 


THE  MAN  OUT  OF  THE  NOSE 

A  the  intersection  of  two  certain 
streets  in  that  part  of  San  Francisco 
known  by  the  rather  loosely  applied 
name  of  North  Beach,  is  a  vacant 
lot,  which  is  rather  more  nearly  level  than  is 
usually  the  case  with  lots,  vacant  or  otherwise, 
in  that  region.  Immediately  at  the  back  of  it, 
to  the  south,  however,  the  ground  slopes 
steeply  upward,  the  acclivity  broken  by  three 
terraces  cut  into  the  soft  rock.  It  is  a  place 
for  goats  and  poor  persons,  several  families  of 
each  class  having  occupied  it  jointly  and 
amicably  "  from  the  foundation  of  the  city." 
One  of  the  humble  habitations  of  the  lowest 
terrace  is  noticeable  for  its  rude  resemblance 
to  the  human  face,  or  rather  to  such  a  simula- 
crum of  it  as  a  boy  might  cut  out  of  a  hol- 
lowed pumpkin,  meaning  no  offense  to  his 
race.  The  eyes  are  two  circular  windows,  the 
nose  is  a  door,  the  mouth  an  aperture  caused 
by  removal  of  a  board  below.  There  are  no 
doorsteps.  As  a  face,  this  house  is  too  large; 
as  a  dwelling,  too  small.  The  blank,  unmean- 


234    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

ing  stare  of  its  lidless  and  browless  eyes  is 
uncanny. 

Sometimes  a  man  steps  out  of  the  nose, 
turns,  passes  the  place  where  the  right  ear 
should  be  and  making  his  way  through  the 
throng  of  children  and  goats  obstructing  the 
narrow  walk  between  his  neighbors'  doors  and 
the  edge  of  the  terrace  gains  the  street  by  de- 
scending a  flight  of  rickety  stairs.  Here  he 
pauses  to  consult  his  watch  and  the  stranger 
who  happens  to  pass  wonders  why  such  a  man 
as  that  can  care  what  is  the  hour.  Longer 
observations  would  show  that  the  time  of  day 
is  an  important  element  in  the  man's  move- 
ments, for  it  is  at  precisely  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  that  he  comes  forth  365  times  in 
every  year. 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  he  has  made 
no  mistake  in  the  hour  he  replaces  the  watch 
and  walks  rapidly  southward  up  the  street  two 
squares,  turns  to  the  right  and  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  next  corner  fixes  his  eyes  on  an 
upper  window  in  a  three-story  building  across 
the  way.  This  is  a  somewhat  dingy  structure, 
originally  of  red  brick  and  now  gray.  It 
shows  the  touch  of  age  and  dust.  Built  for  a 
dwelling,  it  is  now  a  factory.  I  do  not  know 
what  is  made  there ;  the  things  that  are  com- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        235 

monly  made  in  a  factory,  I  suppose.  I  only 
know  that  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of 
every  day  but  Sunday  it  is  full  of  activity  and 
clatter;  pulsations  of  some  great  engine  shake 
it  and  there  are  recurrent  screams  of  wood  tor- 
mented by  the  saw.  At  the  window  on  which 
the  man  fixes  an  intensely  expectant  gaze  no- 
thing ever  appears ;  the  glass,  in  truth,  has  such 
a  coating  of  dust  that  it  has  long  ceased  to  be 
transparent.  The  man  looks  at  it  without 
stopping;  he  merely  keeps  turning  his  head 
more  and  more  backward  as  he  leaves  the 
building  behind.  Passing  along  to  the  next 
corner,  he  turns  to  the  left,  goes  round  the 
block,  and  comes  back  till  he  reaches  the  point 
diagonally  across  the  street  from  the  factory — 
a  point  on  his  former  course,  which  he  then 
retraces,  looking  frequently  backward  over  his 
right  shoulder  at  the  window  while  it  is  in 
sight.  For  many  years  he  has  not  been  known 
to  vary  his  route  nor  to  introduce  a  single  in- 
novation into  his  action.  In  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  he  is  again  at  the  mouth  of  his  dwelling, 
and  a  woman,  who  has  for  some  time  been 
standing  in  the  nose,  assists  him  to  enter.  He 
is  seen  no  more  until  two  o'clock  the  next  day. 
The  woman  is  his  wife.  She  supports  her- 
self and  him  by  washing  for  the  poor  people 


236    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

among  whom  they  live,  at  rates  which  destroy 
Chinese  and  domestic  competition. 

This  man  is  about  fifty-seven  years  of  age, 
though  he  looks  greatly  older.  His  hair  is 
dead  white.  He  wears  no  beard,  and  is  always 
newly  shaven.  His  hands  are  clean,  his  nails 
well  kept.  In  the  matter  of  dress  he  is  dis- 
tinctly superior  to  his  position,  as  indicated  by 
his  surroundings  and  the  business  of  his  wife. 
He  is,  indeed,  very  neatly,  if  not  quite  fash- 
ionably, clad.  His  silk  hat  has  a  date  no 
earlier  than  the  year  before  the  last,  and  his 
boots,  scrupulously  polished,  are  innocent  of 
patches.  I  am  told  that  the  suit  which  he 
wears  during  his  daily  excursions  of  fifteen 
minutes  is  not  the  one  that  he  wears  at  home. 
Like  everything  else  that  he  has,  this  is  pro- 
vided and  kept  in  repair  by  the  wife,  and  is 
renewed  as  frequently  as  her  scanty  means 
permit. 

Thirty  years  ago  John  Hardshaw  and  his 
wife  lived  on  Rincon  Hill  in  one  of  the  finest 
residences  of  that  once  aristocratic  quarter. 
He  had  once  been  a  physician,  but  having  in- 
herited a  considerable  estate  from  his  father 
concerned  himself  no  more  about  the  ailments 
of  his  fellow-creatures  and  found  as  much 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        237 

work  as  he  cared  for  in  managing  his  own 
affairs.  Both  he  and  his  wife  were  highly 
cultivated  persons,  and  their  house  was  fre- 
quented by  a  small  set  of  such  men  and  women 
as  persons  of  their  tastes  would  think  worth 
knowing.  So  far  as  these  knew,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hardshaw  lived  happily  together;  certainly 
the  wife  was  devoted  to  her  handsome  and 
accomplished  husband  and  exceedingly  proud 
of  him. 

Among  their  acquaintances  were  the  Bar- 
wells — man,  wife  and  two  young  children — 
of  Sacramento.  Mr.  Barwell  was  a  civil  and 
mining  engineer,  whose  duties  took  him  much 
from  home  and  frequently  to  San  Francisco. 
On  these  occasions  his  wife  commonly  accom- 
panied him  and  passed  much  of  her  time  at 
the  house  of  her  friend,  Mrs.  Hardshaw,  al- 
ways with  her  two  children,  of  whom  Mrs. 
Hardshaw,  childless  herself,  grew  fond.  Un- 
luckily, her  husband  grew  equally  fond  of 
their  mother — a  good  deal  fonder.  Still  more 
unluckily,  that  attractive  lady  was  less  wise 
than  weak. 

At  about  three  o'clock  one  autumn  morning 
Officer  No.  13  of  the  Sacramento  police  saw  a 
man  stealthily  leaving  the  rear  entrance  of  a 
gentleman's  residence  and  promptly  arrested 


238    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

him.  The  man — who  wore  a  slouch  hat  and 
shaggy  overcoat — offered  the  policeman  one 
hundred,  then  five  hundred,  then  one  thou- 
sand dollars  to  be  released.  As  he  had  less 
than  the  first  mentioned  sum  on  his  person  the 
officer  treated  his  proposal  with  virtuous  con- 
tempt. Before  reaching  the  station  the 
prisoner  agreed  to  give  him  a  check  for  ten 
thousand  dollars  and  remain  ironed  in  the 
willows  along  the  river  bank  until  it  should 
be  paid.  As  this  only  provoked  new  derision 
he  would  say  no  more,  merely  giving  an 
obviously  fictitious  name.  When  he  was 
searched  at  the  station  nothing  of  value  was 
found  on  him  but  a  miniature  portrait  of  Mrs. 
iBarwell — the  lady  of  the  house  at  which  he 
was  caught.  The  case  was  set  with  costly  dia- 
monds; and  something  in  the  quality  of  the 
man's  linen  sent  a  pang  of  unavailing  regret 
through  the  severely  incorruptible  bosom  of 
Officer  No.  13.  There  was  nothing  about  the 
prisoner's  clothing  nor  person  to  identify  him 
and  he  was  booked  for  burglary  under  the 
name  that  he  had  given,  the  honorable  name 
of  John  K.  Smith.  The  K.  was  an  inspiration 
upon  which,  doubtless,  he  greatly  prided  him- 
self. 

In  the  mean  time  the  mysterious  disappear- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        239 

ance  of  John  Hardshaw  was  agitating  the  gos- 
sips of  Rincon  Hill  in  San  Francisco,  and  was 
even  mentioned  in  one  of  the  newspapers.  It 
did  not  occur  to  the  lady  whom  that  journal 
considerately  described  as  his  "  widow,"  to 
look  for  him  in  the  city  prison  at  Sacramento 
— a  town  which  he  was  not  known  ever  to 
have  visited.  As  John  K.  Smith  he  was 
arraigned  and,  waiving  examination,  com- 
mitted for  trial. 

About  two  weeks  before  the  trial,  Mrs. 
Hardshaw,  accidentally  learning  that  her  hus- 
band was  held  in  Sacramento  under  an  as- 
sumed name  on  a  charge  of  burglary,  hastened 
to  that  city  without  daring  to  mention  the  mat- 
ter to  any  one  and  presented  herself  at  the 
prison,  asking  for  an  interview  with  her  hus- 
band, John  K.  Smith.  Haggard  and  ill  with 
anxiety,  wearing  a  plain  traveling  wrap  which 
covered  her  from  neck  to  foot,  and  in  which 
she  had  passed  the  night  on  the  steamboat,  too 
anxious  to  sleep,  she  hardly  showed  for  what 
she  was,  but  her  manner  pleaded  for  her  more 
strongly  than  anything  that  she  chose  to  say 
in  evidence  of  her  right  to  admittance.  She 
was  permitted  to  see  him  alone. 

What  occurred  during  that  distressing  in- 
terview has  never  transpired ;  but  later  events 


240    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

prove  that  Hardshaw  had  found  means  to  sub- 
due her  will  to  his  own.  She  left  the  prison, 
a  broken-hearted  woman,  refusing  to  answer 
a  single  question,  and  returning  to  her  desolate 
home  renewed,  in  a  half-hearted  way,  her  in- 
quiries for  her  missing  husband.  A  week 
later  she  was  herself  missing:  she  had  "gone 
back  to  the  States" — nobody  knew  any  more 
than  that. 

On  his  trial  the  prisoner  pleaded  guilty — 
"  by  advice  of  his  counsel,"  so  his  counsel  said. 
Nevertheless,  the  judge,  in  whose  mind  sev- 
eral unusual  circumstances  had  created  a 
doubt,  insisted  on  the  district  attorney  placing 
Officer  No.  13  on  the  stand,  and  the  deposi- 
tion of  Mrs.  Barwell,  who  was  too  ill  to  at- 
tend, was  read  to  the  jury.  It  was  very  brief: 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  matter  except  that  the 
likeness  of  herself  was  her  property,  and  had, 
she  thought,  been  left  on  the  parlor  table 
when  she  had  retired  on  the  night  of  the 
arrest.  She  had  intended  it  as  a  present  to  her 
husband,  then  and  still  absent  in  Europe  on 
business  for  a  mining  company. 

This  witness's  manner  when  making  the 
deposition  at  her  residence  was  afterward  de- 
scribed by  the  district  attorney  as  most  extra- 
ordinary. Twice  she  had  refused  to  testify, 
and  once,  when  the  deposition  lacked  noth- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        241 

ing  but  her  signature,  she  had  caught  it  from 
the  clerk's  hands  and  torn  it  in  pieces.  She 
had  called  her  children  to  the  bedside  and 
embraced  them  with  streaming  eyes,  then  sud- 
denly sending  them  from  the  room,  she  veri- 
fied her  statement  by  oath  and  signature,  and 
fainted — "slick  away,"  said  the  district  at- 
torney. It  was  at  that  time  that  her  physician, 
arriving  upon  the  scene,  took  in  the  situation 
at  a  glance  and  grasping  the  representative  of 
the  law  by  the  collar  chucked  him  into  the 
street  and  kicked  his  assistant  after  him.  The 
insulted  majesty  of  the  law  was  not  vindic- 
ated ;  the  victim  of  the  indignity  did  not  even 
mention  anything  of  all  this  in  court.  He  was 
ambitious  to  win  his  case,  and  the  circum- 
stances of  the  taking  of  that  deposition  were 
not  such  as  would  give  it  weight  if  related ; 
and  after  all,  the  man  on  trial  had  committed 
an  offense  against  the  law's  majesty  only 
less  heinous  than  that  of  the  irascible  physi- 
cian. 

By  suggestion  of  the  judge  the  jury  rend- 
ered a  verdict  of  guilty;  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do,  and  the  prisoner  was  sentenced  to 
the  penitentiary  for  three  years.  His  counsel, 
who  had  objected  to  nothing  and  had  made 
no  plea  for  lenity— had,  in  fact,  hardly  said  a 
word — wrung  his  client's  hand  and  left  the 


242    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

room.  It  was  obvious  to  the  whole  bar  that 
he  had  been  engaged  only  to  prevent  the  court 
from  appointing  counsel  who  might  possibly 
insist  on  making  a  defense. 

John  Hardshaw  served  out  his  term  at  San 
Quentin,  and  when  discharged  was  met  at  the 
prison  gates  by  his  wife,  who  had  returned 
from  "the  States"  to  receive  him.  It  is 
thought  they  went  straight  to  Europe;  any- 
how, a  general  power-of-attorney  to  a  lawyer 
still  living  among  us — from  whom  I  have 
many  of  the  facts  of  this  simple  history — was 
executed  in  Paris.  This  lawyer  in  a  short 
time  sold  everything  that  Hardshaw  owned  in 
California,  and  for  years  nothing  was  heard 
of  the  unfortunate  couple;  though  many  to 
whose  ears  had  come  vague  and  inaccurate 
intimations  of  their  strange  story,  and  who 
had  known  them,  recalled  their  personality 
with  tenderness  and  their  misfortunes  with 
compassion. 

Some  years  later  they  returned,  both  broken 
in  fortune  and  spirits  and  he  in  health.  The 
purpose  of  their  return  I  have  not  been  able 
to  ascertain.  For  some  time  they  lived,  under 
the  name  of  Johnson,  in  a  respectable  enough 
quarter  south  of  Market  Street,  pretty  well 
out,  and  were  never  seen  away  from  the  vicin- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        243 

ity  of  their  dwelling.  They  must  have  had  a 
little  money  left,  for  it  is  not  known  that  the 
man  had  any  occupation,  the  state  of  his  health 
probably  not  permitting.  The  woman's  devo- 
tion to  her  invalid  husband  was  matter  of  re- 
mark among  their  neighbors;  she  seemed 
never  absent  from  his  side  and  always  sup- 
porting and  cheering  him.  They  would  sit 
for  hours  on  one  of  the  benches  in  a  little  pub- 
lic park,  she  reading  to  him,  his  hand  in  hers, 
her  light  touch  occasionally  visiting  his  pale 
brow,  her  still  beautiful  eyes  frequently  lifted 
from  the  book  to  look  into  his  as  she  made 
some  comment  on  the  text,  or  closed  the  vol- 
ume to  beguile  his  mood  with  talk  of — what? 
Nobody  ever  overheard  a  conversation  be- 
tween these  two.  The  reader  who  has  had  the 
patience  to  follow  their  history  to  this  point 
may  possibly  find  a  pleasure  in  conjecture: 
there  was  probably  something  to  be  avoided. 
The  bearing  of  the  man  was  one  of  profound 
dejection ;  indeed,  the  unsympathetic  youth  of 
the  neighborhood,  with  that  keen  sense  for 
visible  characteristics  which  ever  distinguishes 
the  young  male  of  our  species,  sometimes  men- 
tioned him  among  themselves  by  the  name  of 
Spoony  Glum. 

It  occurred  one  day  that  John  Hardshaw 


244,    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

was  possessed  by  the  spirit  of  unrest.  God 
knows  what  led  him  whither  he  went,  but  he 
crossed  Market  Street  and  held  his  way  north- 
ward over  the  hills,  and  downward  into  the 
region  known  as  North  Beach.  Turning  aim- 
lessly to  the  left  he  followed  his  toes  along  an 
unfamiliar  street  until  he  was  opposite  what 
for  that  period  was  a  rather  grand  dwelling, 
and  for  this  is  a  rather  shabby  factory.  Cast- 
ing his  eyes  casually  upward  he  saw  at  an 
open  window  what  it  had  been  better  that  he 
had  not  seen — the  face  and  figure  of  Elvira 
Barwell.  Their  eyes  met.  With  a  sharp  ex- 
clamation, like  the  cry  of  a  startled  bird,  the 
lady  sprang  to  her  feet  and  thrust  her  body 
half  out  of  the  window,  clutching  the  casing 
on  each  side.  Arrested  by  the  cry,  the  people 
in  the  street  below  looked  up.  Hardshaw 
stood  motionless,  speechless,  his  eyes  two 
flames.  "Take  care  I"  shouted  some  one  in  the 
crowd,  as  the  woman  strained  further  and 
further  forward,  defying  the  silent,  implac- 
able law  of  gravitation,  as  once  she  had  defied 
that  other  law  which  God  thundered  from 
Sinai.  The  suddenness  of  her  movements  had 
tumbled  a  torrent  of  dark  hair  down  her 
shoulders,  and  now  it  was  blown  about  her 
cheeks,  almost  concealing  her  face.  A 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        245 

moment  so,  and  then — I  A  fearful  cry  rang 
through  the  street,  as,  losing  her  balance,  she 
pitched  headlong  from  the  window,  a  con- 
fused and  whirling  mass  of  skirts,  limbs,  hair, 
and  white  face,  and  struck  the  pavement  with 
a  horrible  sound  and  a  force  of  impact  that 
was  felt  a  hundred  feet  away.  For  a  moment 
all  eyes  refused  their  office  and  turned  from 
the  sickening  spectacle  on  the  sidewalk. 
Drawn  again  to  that  horror,  they  saw  it 
strangely  augmented.  A  man,  hatless,  seated 
flat  upon  the  paving  stones,  held  the  broken, 
bleeding  body  against  his  breast,  kissing  the 
mangled  cheeks  and  streaming  mouth  through 
tangles  of  wet  hair,  his  own  features  indis- 
tinguishably  crimson  with  the  blood  that  half- 
strangled  him  and  ran  in  rills  from  his  soaken 
beard. 

The  reporter's  task  is  nearly  finished.  The 
Barwells  had  that  very  morning  returned 
from  a  two  years'  absence  in  Peru.  A  week 
later  the  widower,  now  doubly  desolate,  since 
there  could  be  no  missing  the  significance  of 
Hardshaw's  horrible  demonstration,  had 
sailed  for  I  know  not  what  distant  port;  he  has 
never  come  back  to  stay.  Hardshaw — as  John- 
son no  longer — passed  a  year  in  the  Stockton 
asylum  for  the  insane,  where  also,  through  the 


246    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

influence  of  pitying  friends,  his  wife  was  ad- 
mitted to  care  for  him.  When  he  was  dis- 
charged, not  cured  but  harmless,  they  re- 
turned to  the  city;  it  would  seem  ever  to  have 
had  some  dreadful  fascination  for  them.  For 
a  time  they  lived  near  the  Mission  Dolores,  in 
poverty  only  less  abject  than  that  which  is 
their  present  lot;  but  it  was  too  far  away  from 
the  objective  point  of  the  man's  daily  pilgrim- 
age. They  could  not  afford  car  fare.  So  that 
poor  devil  of  an  angel  from  Heaven — wife  to 
this  convict  and  lunatic — obtained,  at  a  fair 
enough  rental,  the  blank-faced  shanty  on  the 
lower  terrace  of  Goat  Hill.  Thence  to  the 
structure  that  was  a  dwelling  and  is  a  factory 
the  distance  is  not  so  great;  it  is,  in  fact,  an 
agreeable  walk,  judging  from  the  man's  eager 
and  cheerful  look  as  he  takes  it.  The  return 
journey  appears  to  be  a  trifle  wearisome. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       247 


AN  ADVENTURE  AT  BROWNVILLE  * 

I  TAUGHT  a  little  country  school  near 
Brownville,  which,  as  every  one  knows 
who  has  had  the  good  luck  to  live  there, 
is  the  capital  of  a  considerable  expanse 
of  the  finest  scenery  in  California.  The  town  is 
somewhat  frequented  in  summer  by  a  class  of 
persons  whom  it  is  the  habit  of  the  local  jour- 
nal to  call  "  pleasure  seekers,"  but  who  by  a 
juster  classification  would  be  known  as  "  the 
sick  and  those  in  adversity."  Brownville  it- 
self might  rightly  enough  be  described,  in- 
deed, as  a  summer  place  of  last  resort.  It  is 
fairly  well  endowed  with  boarding-houses,  at 
the  least  pernicious  of  which  I  pexforrncd 
twice  a  day  (lunching  at  the  schoolhouse)  the 
humble  rite  of  cementing  the  alliance  between 
soul  and  body.  From  this  "  hostelry  "  (as  the 
local  journal  preferred  to  call  it  when  it  did 
not  call  it  a  "caravanserai")  to  the  school- 
house  the  distance  by  the  wagon  road  was 
about  a  mile  and  a  half;  but  there  was  a  trail, 
very  little  used,  which  led  over  an  interven- 

*This  story  was  written  in  collaboration  with  Miss  Ina  Lillian 
Peterson,  to  whom  is  rightly  due  the  credit  for  whatever  merit  it 
may  have. 


248    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ing  range  of  low,  heavily  wooded  hills,  con- 
siderably shortening  the  distance.  By  this 
trail  I  was  returning  one  evening  later  than 
usual.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the  term  and  I 
had  been  detained  at  the  schoolhouse  until  al- 
most dark,  preparing  an  account  of  my  stew- 
ardship for  the  trustees — two  of  whom,  I 
proudly  reflected,  would  be  able  to  read  it, 
and  the  third  (an  instance  of  the  dominion 
of  mind  over  matter)  would  be  overruled  in 
his  customary  antagonism  to  the  schoolmaster 
of  his  own  creation. 

I  had  gone  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  the 
way  when,  finding  an  interest  in  the  antics  of 
a  family  of  lizards  which  dwelt  thereabout 
and  seemed  full  of  reptilian  joy  for  their  im- 
munity from  the  ills  incident  to  life  at  the 
Brownville  House,  I  sat  upon  a  fallen  tree  to 
observe  them.  As  I  leaned  wearily  against  a 
branch  of  the  gnarled  old  trunk  the  twilight 
deepened  in  the  somber  woods  and  the  faint 
new  moon  began  casting  visible  shadows  and 
gilding  the  leaves  of  the  trees  with  a  tender 
but  ghostly  light. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  voices — a  woman's, 
anSry>  impetuous,  rising  against  deep  mascu- 
line tones,  rich  and  musical.  I  strained  my 
eyes,  peering  through  the  dusky  shadows  of  the 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        249 

wood,  hoping  to  get  a  view  of  the  intruders  on 
my  solitude,  but  could  see  no  one.  For  some 
yards  in  each  direction  I  had  an  uninterrupted 
view  of  the  trail,  and  knowing  of  no  other 
within  a  half  mile  thought  the  persons  heard 
must  be  approaching  from  the  wood  at  one 
side.  There  was  no  sound  but  that  of  the 
voices,  which  were  now  so  distinct  that  I  could 
catch  the  words.  That  of  the  man  gave  me  an 
impression  of  anger,  abundantly  confirmed  by 
the  matter  spoken. 

"  I  will  have  no  threats ;  you  are  powerless, 
as  you  very  well  know.  Let  things  remain  as 
they  are  or,  by  God!  you  shall  both  suffer 
for  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?" — this  was  the  voice 
of  the  woman,  a  cultivated  voice,  the  voice  of 
a  lady.  "  You  would  not — murder  us." 

There  was  no  reply,  at  least  none  that  was 
audible  to  me.  During  the  silence  I  peered 
into  the  wood  in  hope  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
speakers,  for  I  felt  sure  that  this  was  an  affair 
of  gravity  in  which  ordinary  scruples  ought 
not  to  count.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  woman 
was  in  peril ;  at  any  rate  the  man  had  not  dis- 
avowed a  willingness  to  murder.  When  a 
man  is  enacting  the  role  of  potential  assassin 
he  has  not  the  right  to  choose  his  audience. 


250    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

After  some  little  time  I  saw  them,  indistinct 
in  the  moonlight  among  the  trees.  The  man, 
tall  and  slender,  seemed  clothed  in  black;  the 
woman  wore,  as  nearly  as  I  could  make  out,  a 
gown  of  gray  stuff.  Evidently  they  were  still 
unaware  of  my  presence  in  the  shadow, 
though  for  some  reason  when  they  renewed 
their  conversation  they  spoke  in  lower  tones 
and  I  could  no  longer  understand.  As  I 
looked  the  woman  seemed  to  sink  to  the 
ground  and  raise  her  hands  in  supplication, 
as  is  frequently  done  on  the  stage  and  never, 
so  far  as  I  knew,  anywhere  else,  and  I  am  now 
not  altogether  sure  that  it  was  done  in  this 
instance.  The  man  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her; 
they  seemed  to  glitter  bleakly  in  the  moon- 
light with  an  expression  that  made  me  appre- 
hensive that  he  would  turn  them  upon  me.  I 
do  not  know  by  what  impulse  I  was  moved, 
but  I  sprang  to  my  feet  out  of  the  shadow.  At 
that  instant  the  figures  vanished.  I  peered  in 
vain  through  the  spaces  among  the  trees  and 
clumps  of  undergrowth.  The  night  wind 
rustled  the  leaves;  the  lizards  had  retired 
early,  reptiles  of  exemplary  habits.  The  little 
moon  was  already  slipping  behind  a  black  hill 
in  the  west. 

I  went  home,  somewhat  disturbed  in  mind, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        251 

half  doubting  that  I  had  heard  or  seen  any 
living  thing  excepting  the  lizards.  It  all 
seemed  a  trifle  odd  and  uncanny.  It  was  as  if 
among  the  several  phenomena,  objective  and 
subjective,  that  made  the  sum  total  of  the  inci- 
dent there  had  been  an  uncertain  element 
which  had  diffused  its  dubious  character  over 
all — had  leavened  the  whole  mass  with  un- 
reality. I  did  not  like  it. 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning 
there  was  a  new  face ;  opposite  me  sat  a  young 
woman  at  whom  I  merely  glanced  as  I  took  my 
seat.  In  speaking  to  the  high  and  mighty 
female  personage  who  condescended  to  seem 
to  wait  upon  us,  this  girl  soon  invited  my  at- 
tention by  the  sound  of  her  voice,  which  was 
like,  yet  not  altogether  like,  the  one  still  mur- 
muring in  my  memory  of  the  previous  even- 
ing's adventure.  A  moment  later  another  girl, 
a  few  years  older,  entered  the  room  and  sat 
at  the  left  of  the  other,  speaking  to  her  a 
gentle  "  good  morning."  By  her  voice  I  was 
startled:  it  was  without  doubt  the  one  of 
which  the  first  girl's  had  reminded  me.  Here 
was  the  lady  of  the  sylvan  incident  sitting 
bodily  before  me,  "in  her  habit  as  she 
lived." 

Evidently   enough    the   two   were   sisters. 


252     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

With  a  nebulous  kind  of  apprehension  that  I 
might  be  recognized  as  the  mute  inglorious 
hero  of  an  adventure  which  had  in  my  con- 
sciousness and  conscience  something  of  the 
character  of  eavesdropping,  I  allowed  myself 
only  a  hasty  cup  of  the  lukewarm  coffee 
thoughtfully  provided  by  the  prescient  wait- 
ress for  the  emergency,  and  left  the  table.  As 
I  passed  out  of  the  house  into  the  grounds  I 
heard  a  rich,  strong  male  voice  singing  an 
aria  from  "Rigoletto."  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  it  was  exquisitely  sung,  too,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  performance  that  displeased 
me,  I  could  say  neither  what  nor  why,  and  I 
walked  rapidly  away. 

Returning  later  in  the  day  I  saw  the  elder 
of  the  two  young  women  standing  on  the 
porch  and  near  her  a  tall  man  in  black  cloth- 
ing— the  man  whom  I  had  expected  to  see. 
All  day  the  desire  to  know  something  of  these 
persons  had  been  uppermost  in  my  mind  and  I 
now  resolved  to  learn  what  I  could  of  them  in 
any  way  that  was  neither  dishonorable  nor 
low. 

The  man  was  talking  easily  and  affably  to 
his  companion,  but  at  the  sound  of  my  foot- 
steps on  the  gravel  walk  he  ceased,  and  turn- 
ing about  looked  me  full  in  the  face.  He  was 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        253 

apparently  of  middle  age,  dark  and  uncom- 
monly handsome.  His  attire  was  faultless,  his 
bearing  easy  and  graceful,  the  look  which  he 
turned  upon  me  open,  free,  and  devoid  of  any 
suggestion  of  rudeness.  Nevertheless  it 
affected  me  with  a  distinct  emotion  which  on 
subsequent  analysis  in  memory  appeared  to  be 
compounded  of  hatred  and  dread — I  am  un- 
willing to  call  it  fear.  A  second  later  the  man 
and  woman  had  disappeared.  They  seemed 
to  have  a  trick  of  disappearing.  On  entering 
the  house,  however,  I  saw  them  through  the 
open  doorway  of  the  parlor  as  I  passed ;  they 
had  merely  stepped  through  a  window  which 
opened  down  to  the  floor. 

Cautiously  "  approached"  on  the  subject  of 
her  new  guests  my  landlady  proved  not  un- 
gracious. Restated  with,  I  hope,  some  small 
reverence  for  English  grammar  the  facts  were 
these:  the  two  girls  were  Pauline  and  Eva 
Maynard  of  San  Francisco;  the  elder  was 
Pauline.  The  man  was  Richard  Benning, 
their  guardian,  who  had  been  the  most  inti- 
mate friend  of  their  father,  now  deceased. 
Mr.  Benning  had  brought  them  to  Brownville 
in  the  hope  that  the  mountain  climate  might 
benefit  Eva,  who  was  thought  to  be  in  danger 
of  consumption. 


254    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Upon  these  short  and  simple  annals  the 
landlady  wrought  an  embroidery  of  eulogium 
which  abundantly  attested  her  faith  in  Mr. 
[Benning's  will  and  ability  to  pay  for  the  best 
that  her  house  afforded.  That  he  had  a  good 
heart  was  evident  to  her  from  his  devotion  to 
his  two  beautiful  wards  and  his  really  touch- 
ing solicitude  for  their  comfort.  The  evi- 
dence impressed  me  as  insufficient  and  I 
silently  found  the  Scotch  verdict,  "Not 
proven." 

Certainly  Mr.  Benning  was  most  attentive 
to  his  wards.  In  my  strolls  about  the  country  I 
frequently  encountered  them — sometimes  in 
company  with  other  guests  of  the  hotel — ex- 
ploring the  gulches,  fishing,  rifle  shooting,  and 
otherwise  wiling  away  the  monotony  of 
country  life ;  and  although  I  watched  them  as 
closely  as  good  manners  would  permit  I  saw 
nothing  that  would  in  any  way  explain  the 
strange  words  that  I  had  overheard  in  the 
wood.  I  had  grown  tolerably  well  acquainted 
with  the  young  ladies  and  could  exchange 
looks  and  even  greetings  with  their  guardian 
without  actual  repugnance. 

A  month  went  by  and  I  had  almost  ceased 
to  interest  myself  in  their  affairs  when  one 
night  our  entire  little  community  was  thrown 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        255 

into  excitement  by  an  event  which  vividly  re- 
called my  experience  in  the  forest. 

This  was  the  death  of  the  elder  girl,  Paul- 
ine. 

The  sisters  had  occupied  the  same  bedroom 
on  the  third  floor  of  the  house.  Waking  in 
the  gray  of  the  morning  Eva  had  found  Paul- 
ine dead  beside  her.  Later,  when  the  poor 
girl  was  weeping  beside  the  body  amid  a 
throng  of  sympathetic  if  not  very  considerate 
persons,  Mr.  Benning  entered  the  room  and 
appeared  to  be  about  to  take  her  hand.  She 
drew  away  from  the  side  of  the  dead  and 
moved  slowly  toward  the  door. 

"  It  is  you,"  she  said — "  you  who  have  done 
this.  You — you — you ! " 

"  She  is  raving,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
He  followed  her,  step  by  step,  as  she  retreated, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  hers  with  a  steady  gaze  in 
which  there  was  nothing  of  tenderness  nor  of 
compassion.  She  stopped;  the  hand  that  she 
had  raised  in  accusation  fell  to  her  side,  her 
dilated  eyes  contracted  visibly,  the  lids  slowly 
dropped  over  them,  veiling  their  strange  wild 
beauty,  and  she  stood  motionless  and  almost  as 
white  as  the  dead  girl  lying  near.  The  man 
took  her  hand  and  put  his  arm  gently  about 
her  shoulders,  as  if  to  support  her.  Suddenly 


256     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  and  clung  to 
him  as  a  child  to  its  mother.  He  smiled  with 
a  smile  that  affected  me  most  disagreeably — 
perhaps  any  kind  of  smile  would  have  done 
so — and  led  her  silently  out  of  the  room. 

There  was  an  inquest — and  the  customary 
verdict:  the  deceased,  it  appeared,  came  to  her 
death  through  "  heart  disease."  It  was  be- 
fore the  invention  of  heart  failure,  though 
the  heart  of  poor  Pauline  had  indubitably 
failed.  The  body  was  embalmed  and  taken  to 
San  Francisco  by  some  one  summoned  thence 
for  the  purpose,  neither  Eva  nor  Benning  ac- 
companying it.  Some  of  the  hotel  gossips 
ventured  to  think  that  very  strange,  and  a  few 
hardy  spirits  went  so  far  as  to  think  it  very 
strange  indeed;  but  the  good  landlady  gen- 
erously threw  herself  into  the  breach,  saying 
it  was  owing  to  the  precarious  nature  of  the 
girl's  health.  It  is  nojt  of  record  that  either 
of  the  two  persons  most  affected  and  appar- 
ently least  concerned  made  any  explanation. 

One  evening  about  a  week  after  the  death  I 
went  out  upon  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  to  get 
a  book  that  I  had  left  there.  Under  some 
vines  shutting  out  the  moonlight  from  a  part 
of  the  space  I  saw  Richard  Benning,  for 
whose  apparition  I  was  prepared  by  having 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        257 

previously  heard  the  low,  sweet  voice  of  Eva 
Maynard,  whom  also  I  now  discerned,  stand- 
ing before  him  with  one  hand  raised  to  his 
shoulder  and  her  eyes,  as  nearly  as  I  could 
judge,  gazing  upward  into  his.  He  held  her 
disengaged  hand  and  his  head  was  bent  with 
a  singular  dignity  and  grace.  Their  attitude 
was  that  of  lovers,  and  as  I  stood  in  deep 
shadow  to  observe  I  felt  even  guiltier  than  on 
that  memorable  night  in  the  wood.  I  was 
about  to  retire,  when  the  girl  spoke,  and  the 
contrast  between  her  words  and  her  attitude 
was  so  surprising  that  I  remained,  because  I 
had  merely  forgotten  to  go  away. 

"  You  will  take  my  life,"  she  said,  "  as  you 
did  Pauline's.  I  know  your  intention  as  well 
as  I  know  your  power,  and  I  ask  nothing,  only 
that  you  finish  your  work  without  needless 
delay  and  let  me  be  at  peace." 

He  made  no  reply — merely  let  go  the  hand 
that  he  was  holding,  removed  the  other  from 
his  shoulder,  and  turning  away  descended  the 
steps  leading  to  the  garden  and  disappeared 
in  the  shrubbery.  But  a  moment  later  I 
heard,  seemingly  from  a  great  distance,  his 
fine  clear  voice  in  a  barbaric  chant,  which  as  I 
listened  brought  before  some  inner  spiritual 
sense  a  consciousness  of  some  far,  strange  land 


258     THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

peopled  with  beings  having  forbidden  powers. 
The  song  held  me  in  a  kind  of  spell,  but  when 
it  had  died  away  I  recovered  and  instantly 
perceived  what  I  thought  an  opportunity.  I 
walked  out  of  my  shadow  to  where  the  girl 
stood.  She  turned  and  stared  at  me  with 
something  of  the  look,  it  seemed  to  me,  of  a 
hunted  hare.  Possibly  my  intrusion  had 
frightened  her. 

"Miss  Maynard,"  I  said,  "I  beg  you  to 
tell  me  who  that  man  is  and  the  nature  of  his 
power  over  you.  Perhaps  this  is  rude  in  me, 
but  it  is  not  a  matter  for  idle  civilities.  When 
a  woman  is  in  danger  any  man  has  a  right 
to  act." 

She  listened  without  visible  emotion — 
almost  I  thought  without  interest,  and  when 
I  had  finished  she  closed  her  big  blue  eyes  as 
if  unspeakably  weary. 

"  You  can  do  nothing,"  she  said. 

I  took  hold  of  her  arm,  gently  shaking  her 
as  one  shakes  a  person  falling  into  a  danger- 
ous sleep. 

"  You  must  rouse  yourself,"  I  said ;  "  some- 
thing must  be  done  and  you  must  give  me 
leave  to  act.  You  have  said  that  that  man 
killed  your  sister,  and  I  believe  it — that  he 
will  kill  you,  and  I  believe  that." 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        259 

She  merely  raised  her  eyes  to  mine. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  all?  "  I  added. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  I  tell  you — 
nothing.  And  if  I  could  do  anything  I  would 
not.  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least.  We  shall 
be  here  only  two  days  more ;  we  go  away  then, 
oh,  so  far!  If  you  have  observed  anything,  I 
beg  you  to  be  silent." 

"  But  this  is  madness,  girl."  I  was  trying 
by  rough  speech  to  break  the  deadly  repose  of 
her  manner.  "You  have  accused  him  of 
murder.  Unless  you  explain  these  things  to 
me  I  shall  lay  the  matter  before  the  authori- 
ties." 

This  roused  her,  but  in  a  way  that  I  did  not 
like.  She  lifted  her  head  proudly  and  said: 
"  Do  not  meddle,  sir,  in  what  does  not  concern 
you.  This  is  my  affair,  Mr.  Moran,  not 
yours." 

"  It  concerns  every  person  in  the  country — 
in  the  world,"  I  answered,  with  equal  cold- 
ness. "  If  you  had  no  love  for  your  sister  I, 
at  least,  am  concerned  for  you." 

"  Listen,"  she  interrupted,  leaning  toward 
me.  "I  loved  her,  yes,  God  knows!  But 
more  than  that — beyond  all,  beyond  expres- 
sion, I  love  him.  You  have  overheard  a 
secret,  but  you  shall  not  make  use  of  it  to  harm 


260    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

him.  I  shall  deny  all.  Your  word  against 
mine — it  will  be  that.  Do  you  think  your 
'  authorities '  will  believe  you?  " 

She  was  now  smiling  like  an  angel  and,  God 
help  me!  I  was  heels  over  head  in  love  with 
her!  Did  she,  by  some  of  the  many  methods 
of  divination  known  to  her  sex,  read  my  feel- 
ings? Her  whole  manner  had  altered. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  almost  coaxingly, 
"  promise  that  you  will  not  be  impolite  again." 
She  took  my  arm  in  the  most  friendly  way. 
"  Come,  I  will  walk  with  you.  He  will  not 
know — he  will  remain  away  all  night." 

Up  and  down  the  veranda  we  paced  in  the 
moonlight,  she  seemingly  forgetting  her  re- 
cent bereavement,  cooing  and  murmuring  girl- 
wise  of  every  kind  of  nothing  in  all  Brown- 
ville;  I  silent,  consciously  awkward  and  with 
something  of  the  feeling  of  being  concerned  in 
an  intrigue.  It  was  a  revelation — this  most 
charming  and  apparently  blameless  creature 
coolly  and  confessedly  deceiving  the  man  for 
whom  a  moment  before  she  had  acknow- 
ledged and  shown  the  supreme  love  which 
finds  even  death  an  acceptable  endearment. 

"Truly,"  I  thought  in  my  inexperience, 
"  here  is  something  new  under  the  moon." 

And  the  moon  must  have  smiled. 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE       261 

Before  we  parted  I  had  exacted  a  promise 
that  she  would  walk  with  me  the  next  after- 
noon— before  going  away  forever — to  the  Old 
Mill,  one  of  Brownville's  revered  antiquities, 
erected  in  1860. 

"If  he  is  not  about,"  she  added  gravely,  as 
I  let  go  the  hand  she  had  given  me  at  parting, 
and  of  which,  may  the  good  saints  forgive  me, 
I  strove  vainly  to  repossess  myself  when  she 
had  said  it — so  charming,  as  the  wise  French- 
man has  pointed  out,  do  we  find  woman's  in- 
fidelity when  we  are  its  objects,  not  its  vic- 
tims. In  apportioning  his  benefactions  that 
night  the  Angel  of  Sleep  overlooked  me. 

The  Brownville  House  dined  early,  and 
after  dinner  the  next  day  Miss  Maynard,  who 
had  not  been  at  table,  came  to  me  on  the 
veranda,  attired  in  the  demurest  of  walking 
costumes,  saying  not  a  word.  "  He  "  was  evi- 
dently "  not  about."  We  went  slowly  up  the 
road  that  led  to  the  Old  Mill.  She  was  ap- 
parently not  strong  and  at  times  took  my  arm, 
relinquishing  it  and  taking  it  again  rather 
capriciously,  I  thought.  Her  mood,  or  rather 
her  succession  of  moods,  was  as  mutable  as 
skylight  in  a  rippling  sea.  She  jested  as  if 
she  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  death, 
and  laughed  on  the  lightest  incitement,  and 


262    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

directly  afterward  would  sing  a  few  bars  of 
some  grave  melody  with  such  tenderness  of 
expression  that  I  had  to  turn  away  my  eyes 
lest  she  should  see  the  evidence  of  her  success 
in  art,  if  art  it  was,  not  artlessness,  as  then  I 
was  compelled  to  think  it.  And  she  said  the 
oddest  things  in  the  most  unconventional  way, 
skirting  sometimes  unfathomable  abysms  of 
thought,  where  I  had  hardly  the  courage  to 
set  foot.  In  short,  she  was  fascinating  in  a 
thousand  and  fifty  different  ways,  and  at  every 
step  I  executed  a  new  and  profounder  emo- 
tional folly,  a  hardier  spiritual  indiscretion, 
incurring  fresh  liability  to  arrest  by  the  con- 
stabulary of  conscience  for  infractions  of  my 
own  peace. 

Arriving  at  the  mill,  she  made  no  pretense 
of  stopping,  but  turned  into  a  trail  leading 
through  a  field  of  stubble  toward  a  creek. 
Crossing  by  a  rustic  bridge  we  continued  on 
the  trail,  which  now  led  uphill  to  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  spots  in  the  country.  The 
Eagle's  Nest,  it  was  called — the  summit  of  a 
cliff  that  rose  sheer  into  the  air  to  a  height  of 
hundreds  of  feet  above  the  forest  at  its  base. 
From  this  elevated  point  we  had  a  noble  view 
of  another  valley  and  of  the  opposite  hills 
flushed  with  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 


OF   AMBROSE  BIERCE       263 

As  we  watched  the  light  escaping  to  higher 
and  higher  planes  from  the  encroaching  flood 
of  shadow  filling  the  valley  we  heard  foot- 
steps, and  in  another  moment  were  joined  by 
Richard  Benning. 

"  I  saw  you  from  the  road,"  he  said  care- 
lessly; "so  I  came  up." 

Being  a  fool,  I  neglected  to  take  him  by 
the  throat  and  pitch  him  into  the  treetops 
below,  but  muttered  some  polite  lie  instead. 
On  the  girl  the  effect  of  his  coming  was  im- 
mediate and  unmistakable.  Her  face  was 
suffused  with  the  glory  of  love's  transfigura- 
tion :  the  red  light  of  the  sunset  had  not  been 
more  obvious  in  her  eyes  than  was  now  the 
lovelight  that  replaced  it. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came! "  she  said,  giving 
him  both  her  hands ;  and,  God  help  me  I  it  was 
manifestly  true. 

Seating  himself  upon  the  ground  he  began  a 
lively  dissertation  upon  the  wild  flowers  of  the 
region,  a  number  of  which  he  had  with  him. 
In  the  middle  of  a  facetious  sentence  he  sud- 
denly ceased  speaking  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
Eva,  who  leaned  against  the  stump  of  a  tree, 
absently  plaiting  grasses.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
in  a  startled  way  to  his,  as  if  she  had  felt  his 
look.  She  then  rose,  cast  away  her  grasses, 


264    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

and  moved  slowly  away  from  him.  He  also 
rose,  continuing  to  look  at  her.  He  had  still 
in  his  hand  the  bunch  of  flowers.  The  girl 
turned,  as  if  to  speak,  but  said  nothing.  I 
recall  clearly  now  something  of  which  I  was 
but  half-conscious  then — the  dreadful  contrast 
between  the  smile  upon  her  lips  and  the  terri- 
fied expression  in  her  eyes  as  she  met  his 
steady  and  imperative  gaze.  I  know  nothing 
of  how  it  happened,  nor  how  it  was  that  I  did 
not  sooner  understand ;  I  only  know  that  with 
the  smile  of  an  angel  upon  her  lips  and  that 
look  of  terror  in  her  beautiful  eyes  Eva  May- 
nard  sprang  from  the  cliff  and  shot  crashing 
into  the  tops  of  the  pines  below ! 

How  and  how  long  afterward  I  reached  the 
place  I  cannot  say,  but  Richard  Benning  was 
already  there,  kneeling  beside  the  dreadful 
thing  that  had  been  a  woman. 

"  She  is  dead — quite  dead,"  he  said  coldly. 
"  I  will  go  to  town  for  assistance.  Please  do 
me  the  favor  to  remain." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  away,  but  in 
a  moment  had  stopped  and  turned  about. 

"  You  have  doubtless  observed,  my  friend," 
he  said,  "  that  this  was  entirely  her  own  act.  I 
did  not  rise  in  time  to  prevent  it,  and  you,  not 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        265 

knowing  her  mental  condition — you  could  not, 
of  course,  have  suspected." 

His  manner  maddened  me. 

"  You  are  as  much  her  assassin,"  I  said,  "  as 
if  your  damnable  hands  had  cut  her  throat." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  without  reply 
and,  turning,  walked  away.  A  moment  later 
I  heard,  through  the  deepening  shadows  of 
the  wood  into  which  he  had  disappeared,  a 
rich,  strong,  baritone  voice  singing  "La  donna 
e  mobile"  from  "  Rigoletto." 


266    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST 

IT  was  rough  on  Gilson.  Such  was  the 
terse,  cold,  but  not  altogether  unsympa- 
thetic judgment  of  the  better  public  opin- 
ion at  Mammon  Hill — the  dictum  of  re- 
spectability. The  verdict  of  the  opposite,  or 
rather  the  opposing,  element — the  element 
that  lurked  red-eyed  and  restless  about  Moll 
Gurney's  "deadfall,"  while  respectability 
took  it  with  sugar  at  Mr.  Jo.  Bentley's  gor- 
geous "  saloon  " — was  to  pretty  much  the  same 
general  effect,  though  somewhat  more  or- 
nately expressed  by  the  use  of  picturesque 
expletives,  which  it  is  needless  to  quote. 
Virtually,  Mammon  Hill  was  a  unit  on  the 
Gilson  question.  And  it  must  be  confessed 
that  in  a  merely  temporal  sense  all  was  not 
well  with  Mr.  Gilson.  He  had  that  morning 
been  led  into  town  by  Mr.  Brentshaw  and 
publicly  charged  with  horse  stealing;  the 
sheriff  meantime  busying  himself  about  The 
Tree  with  a  new  manila  rope  and  Carpenter 
Pete  being  actively  employed  between  drinks 
upon  a  pine  box  about  the  length  and  breadth 
of  Mr.  Gilson.  Society  having  rendered  its 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        267 

verdict,  there  remained  between  Gilson 
and  eternity  only  the  decent  formality  of  a 
trial. 

These  arejthe  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
prisoner:  He  had  recently  been  a  resident  of 
New  Jerusalem,  on  the  north  fork  of  the  Little 
Stony,  but  had  come  to  the  newly  discovered 
placers  of  Mammon  Hill  immediately  before 
the  "  rush "  by  which  the  former  place  was 
depopulated.  The  discovery  of  the  new  digg- 
ings had  occurred  opportunely  for  Mr.  Gil- 
son,  for  it  had  only  just  before  been  intimated 
to  him  by  a  New  Jerusalem  vigilance  commit- 
tee that  it  would  better  his  prospects  in,  and 
for,  life  to  go  somewhere;  and  the  list  of 
places  to  which  he  could  safely  go  did  not  in- 
clude any  of  the  older  camps ;  so  he  naturally 
established  himself  at  Mammon  Hill.  Being 
eventually  followed  thither  by  all  his  judges, 
he  ordered  his  conduct  with  considerable  cir- 
cumspection, but  as  he  had  never  been  known 
to  do  an  honest  day's  work  at  any  industry 
sanctioned  by  the  stern  local  code  of  morality 
except  draw  poker  he  was  still  an  object  of 
suspicion.  Indeed,  it  was  conjectured  that  he 
was  the  author  of  the  many  daring  depreda- 
tions that  had  recently  been  committed  with 
pan  and  brush  on  the  sluice  boxes. 


268    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

Prominent  among  those  in  whom  this  sus- 
picion had  ripened  into  a  steadfast  conviction 
was  Mr.  Brentshaw.  At  all  seasonable  and 
unseasonable  times  Mr.  Brentshaw  avowed 
his  belief  in  Mr.  Gilson's  connection  with 
these  unholy  midnight  enterprises,  and  his 
own  willingness  to  prepare  a  way  for  the  solar 
beams  through  the  body  of  any  one  who  might 
think  it  expedient  to  utter  a  different  opinion 
— which,  in  his  presence,  no  one  was  more 
careful  not  to  do  than  the  peace-loving  per- 
son most  concerned.  Whatever  may  have 
been  the  truth  of  the  matter,  it  is  certain  that 
Gilson  frequently  lost  more  "clean  dust"  at 
Jo.  Bentley's  faro  table  than  it  was  recorded 
in  local  history  that  he  had  ever  honestly 
earned  at  draw  poker  in  all  the  days  of  the 
camp's  existence.  But  at  last  Mr.  Bentley — 
fearing,  it  may  be,  to  lose  the  more  profitable 
patronage  of  Mr.  Brentshaw — peremptorily 
refused  to  let  Gilson  copper  the  queen,  intim- 
ating at  the  same  time,  in  his  frank,  forth- 
right way,  that  the  privilege  of  losing  money 
at  "  this  bank"  was  a  blessing  appertaining  to, 
proceeding  logically  from,  and  coterminous 
with,  a  condition  of  notorious  commercial 
righteousness  and  social  good  repute. 

The  Hill  thought  it  high  time  to  look  after 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        269 

a  person  whom  its  most  honored  citizen  had 
felt  it  his  duty  to  rebuke  at  a  considerable  per- 
sonal sacrifice.  The  New  Jerusalem  con- 
tingent, particularly,  began  to  abate  some- 
thing of  the  toleration  begotten  of  amusement 
at  their  own  blunder  in  exiling  an  objection- 
able neighbor  from  the  place  which  they  had 
left  to  the  place  whither  they  had  come. 
Mammon  Hill  was  at  last  of  one  mind.  Not 
much  was  said,  but  that  Gilson  must  hang  was 
"  in  the  air."  But  at  this  critical  juncture  in 
his  affairs  he  showed  signs  of  an  altered  life 
if  not  a  changed  heart.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
that  "  the  bank  "  being  closed  against  him  he 
had  no  further  use  for  gold  dust.  Anyhow 
the  sluice  boxes  were  molested  no  more  for- 
ever. But  it  was  impossible  to  repress  the 
abounding  energies  of  such  a  nature  as  his, 
and  he  continued,  possibly  from  habit,  the 
tortuous  courses  which  he  had  pursued  for 
profit  of  Mr.  Bentley.  After  a  few  tentative 
and  resultless  undertakings  in  the  way  of 
highway  robbery — if  one  may  venture  to 
designate  road-agency  by  so  harsh  a  name — 
he  made  one  or  two  modest  essays  in  horse- 
herding,  and  it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  promis- 
ing enterprise  of  this  character,  and  just  as  he 
had  taken  the  tide  in  his  affairs  at  its  flood, 


270    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

that  he  made  shipwreck.  For  on  a  misty, 
moonlight  night  Mr.  Brentshaw  rode  up 
alongside  a  person  who  was  evidently  leaving 
that  part  of  the  country,  laid  a  hand  upon  the 
halter  connecting  Mr.  Gilson's  wrist  with  Mr. 
Harper's  bay  mare,  tapped  him  familiarly  on 
the  cheek  with  the  barrel  of  a  navy  revolver 
and  requested  the  pleasure  of  his  company  in 
a  direction  opposite  to  that  in  which  he  was 
traveling. 

It  was  indeed  rough  on  Gilson. 

On  the  morning  after  his  arrest  he  was 
tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced.  It  only  re- 
mains, so  far  as  concerns  his  earthly  career,  to 
hang  him,  reserving  for  more  particular  men- 
tion his  last  will  and  testament,  which,  with 
great  labor,  he  contrived  in  prison,  and  in 
which,  probably  from  some  confused  and  im- 
perfect notion  of  the  rights  of  captors,  he  be- 
queathed everything  he  owned  to  his  "  lawfle 
execketer,"  Mr.  Brentshaw.  The  bequest, 
however,  was  made  conditional  on  the  legatee 
taking  the  testator's  body  from  The  Tree  and 
"  planting  it  white." 

So  Mr.  Gilson  was — I  was  about  to  say 
"swung  off,"  but  I  fear  there  has  been  al- 
ready something  too  much  of  slang  in  this 
straightforward  statement  of  facts;  besides, 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        271 

the  manner  in  which  the  law  took  its  course 
is  more  accurately  described  in  the  terms  em- 
ployed by  the  judge  in  passing  sentence:  Mr. 
Gilson  was  "  strung  up." 

In  due  season  Mr.  Brentshaw,  somewhat 
touched,  it  may  well  be,  by  the  empty  compli- 
ment of  the  bequest,  repaired  to  The  Tree  to 
pluck  the  fruit  thereof.  When  taken  down 
the  body  was  found  to  have  in  its  waistcoat 
pocket  a  duly  attested  codicil  to  the  will  al- 
ready noted.  The  nature  of  its  provisions  ac- 
counted for  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been 
withheld,  for  had  Mr.  Brentshaw  previously 
been  made  aware  of  the  conditions  under 
which  he  was  to  succeed  to  the  Gilson  estate 
he  would  indubitably  have  declined  the 
responsibility.  Briefly  stated,  the  purport  of 
the  codicil  was  as  follows : 

Whereas,  at  divers  times  and  in  sundry 
places,  certain  persons  had  asserted  that  dur- 
ing his  life  the  testator  had  robbed  their  sluice 
boxes ;  therefore,  if  during  the  five  years  next 
succeeding  the  date  of  this  instrument  any  one 
should  make  proof  of  such  assertion  before  a 
court  of  law,  such  person  was  to  receive  as 
reparation  the  entire  personal  and  real  estate 
of  which  the  testator  died  seized  and  pos- 
sessed, minus  the  expenses  of  court  and  a 


272    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

stated  compensation  to  the  executor,  Henry 
Clay  Brentshaw;  provided,  that  if  more  than 
one  person  made  such  proof  the  estate  was  to 
be  equally  divided  between  or  among  them. 
But  in  case  none  should  succeed  in  so  estab- 
lishing the  testator's  guilt,  then  the  whole 
property,  minus  court  expenses,  as  aforesaid, 
should  go  to  the  said  Henry  Clay  Brentshaw 
for  his  own  use,  as  stated  in  the  will. 

The  syntax  of  this  remarkable  document 
was  perhaps  open  to  critical  objection,  but  that 
was  clearly  enough  the  meaning  of  it.  The 
orthography  conformed  to  no  recognized  sys- 
tem, but  being  mainly  phonetic  it  was  not 
ambiguous.  As  the  probate  judge  remarked, 
it  would  take  five  aces  to  beat  it.  Mr.  Brent- 
shaw smiled  good-humoredly,  and  after  per- 
forming the  last  sad  rites  with  amusing 
ostentation,  had  himself  duly  sworn  as  exec- 
utor and  conditional  legatee  under  the  provi- 
sions of  a  law  hastily  passed  (at  the  instance 
of  the  member  from  the  Mammon  Hill  dis- 
trict) by  a  facetious  legislature;  which  law 
was  afterward  discovered  to  have  created  also 
three  or  four  lucrative  offices  and  authorized 
the  expenditure  of  a  considerable  sum  of  pub- 
lic money  for  the  construction  of  a  certain 
railway  bridge  that  with  greater  advantage 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        273 

might  perhaps  have  been  erected  on  the  line 
of  some  actual  railway. 

Of  course  Mr.  Brentshaw  expected  neither 
profit  from  the  will  nor  litigation  in  conse- 
quence of  its  unusual  provisions;  Gilson,  al- 
though frequently  "  flush,"  had  been  a  man 
whom  assessors  and  tax  collectors  were  well 
satisfied  to  lose  no  money  by.  But  a  careless 
and  merely  formal  search  among  his  papers 
revealed  title  deeds  to  valuable  estates  in 
the  East  and  certificates  of  deposit  for  in- 
credible sums  in  banks  less  severely  scrupulous 
than  that  of  Mr.  Jo.  Bentley. 

The  astounding  news  got  abroad  directly, 
throwing  the  Hill  into  a  fever  of  excitement. 
The  Mammon  Hill  Patriot,  whose  editor  had 
been  a  leading  spirit  in  the  proceedings  that 
resulted  in  Gilson's  departure  from  New 
Jerusalem,  published  a  most  complimentary 
obituary  notice  of  the  deceased,  and  was  good 
enough  to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  his  de- 
graded contemporary,  the  Squaw  Gulch 
Clarion,  was  bringing  virtue  into  contempt  by 
beslavering  with  flattery  the  memory  of  one 
who  in  life  had  spurned  the  vile  sheet  as  a 
nuisance  from  his  door.  Undeterred  by  the 
press,  however,  claimants  under  the  will  were 
not  slow  in  presenting  themselves  with  their 


274    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

evidence;  and  great  as  was  the  Gilson  estate 
it  appeared  conspicuously  paltry  considering 
the  vast  number  of  sluice  boxes  from  which 
it  was  averred  to  have  been  obtained.  The 
country  rose  as  one  man  1 

Mr.  Brentshaw  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 
With  a  shrewd  application  of  humble  aux- 
iliary devices,  he  at  once  erected  above  the 
bones  of  his  benefactor  a  costly  monument, 
overtopping  every  rough  headboard  in  the 
cemetery,  and  on  this  he  judiciously  caused  to 
be  inscribed  an  epitaph  of  his  own  composing, 
eulogizing  the  honesty,  public  spirit  and 
cognate  virtues  of  him  who  slept  beneath,  "  a 
victim  to  the  unjust  aspersions  of  Slander's 
viper  brood." 

Moreover,  he  employed  the  best  legal  talent 
in  the  Territory  to  defend  the  memory  of  his 
departed  friend,  and  for  five  long  years  the 
Territorial  courts  were  occupied  with  litiga- 
tion growing  out  of  the  Gilson  bequest.  To 
fine  forensic  abilities  Mr.  Brentshaw  opposed 
abilities  more  finely  forensic;  in  bidding  for 
purchasable  favors  he  offered  prices  which 
utterly  deranged  the  market;  the  judges  found 
at  his  hospitable  board  entertainment  for  man 
and  beast,  the  like  of  which  had  never  been 
spread  in  the  Territory;  with  mendacious  wit- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        275 

nesses  he  confronted  witnesses  of  superior 
mendacity. 

Nor  was  the  battle  confined  to  the  temple  of 
the  blind  goddess — it  invaded  the  press,  the 
pulpit,  the  drawing-room.  It  raged  in  the 
mart,  the  exchange,  the  school ;  in  the  gulches, 
and  on  the  street  corners.  And  upon  the  last 
day  of  the  memorable  period  to  which  legal 
action  under  the  Gilson  will  was  limited,  the 
sun  went  down  upon  a  region  in  which  the 
moral  sense  was  dead,  the  social  conscience 
callous,  the  intellectual  capacity  dwarfed,  en- 
feebled, and  confused!  But  Mr.  Brentshaw 
was  victorious  all  along  the  line. 

On  that  night  it  so  happened  that  the  ceme- 
tery in  one  corner  of  which  lay  the  now 
honored  ashes  of  the  late  Milton  Gilson,  Esq., 
was  partly  under  water.  Swollen  by  inces- 
sant rains,  Cat  Creek  had  spilled  over  its 
banks  an  angry  flood  which,  after  scooping 
out  unsightly  hollows  wherever  the  soil  had 
been  disturbed,  had  partly  subsided,  as  if 
ashamed  of  the  sacrilege,  leaving  exposed 
much  that  had  been  piously  concealed.  Even 
the  famous  Gilson  monument,  the  pride  and 
glory  of  Mammon  Hill,  was  no  longer  a 
standing  rebuke  to  the  "viper  brood";  suc- 
cumbing to  the  sapping  current  it  had  toppled 


276    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

prone  to  earth.  The  ghoulish  flood  had  ex- 
humed the  poor,  decayed  pine  coffin,  which 
now  lay  half-exposed,  in  pitiful  contrast  to  the 
pompous  monolith  which,  like  a  giant  note  of 
admiration,  emphasized  the  disclosure. 

To  this  depressing  spot,  drawn  by  some 
subtle  influence  he  had  sought  neither  to  resist 
nor  analyze,  came  Mr.  Brentshaw.  An  al- 
tered man  was  Mr.  Brentshaw.  Five  years 
of  toil,  anxiety,  and  wakefulness  had  dashed 
his  black  locks  with  streaks  and  patches  of 
gray,  bowed  his  fine  figure,  drawn  sharp  and 
angular  his  face,  and  debased  his  walk  to  a 
doddering  shuffle.  Nor  had  this  lustrum  of 
fierce  contention  wrought  less  upon  his  heart 
and  intellect.  The  careless  good  humor  that 
had  prompted  him  to  accept  the  trust  of  the 
dead  man  had  given  place  to  a  fixed  habit  of 
melancholy.  The  firm,  vigorous  intellect  had 
overripened  into  the  mental  mellowness  of 
second  childhood.  His  broad  understanding 
had  narrowed  to  the  accommodation  of  a 
single  idea ;  and  in  place  of  the  quiet,  cynical 
incredulity  of  former  days,  there  was  in  him  a 
haunting  faith  in  the  supernatural,  that  flitted 
and  fluttered  about  his  soul,  shadowy,  batlike, 
ominous  of  insanity.  Unsettled  in  all  else,  his 
understanding  clung  to  one  conviction  with 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       277 

the  tenacity  of  a  wrecked  intellect.  That  was 
an  unshaken  belief  in  the  entire  blamelessness 
of  the  dead  Gilson.  He  had  so  often  sworn  to 
this  in  court  and  asserted  it  in  private  conver- 
sation— had  so  frequently  and  so  triumphantly 
established  it  by  testimony  that  had  come  ex- 
pensive to  him  (for  that  very  day  he  had  paid 
the  last  dollar  of  the  Gilson  estate  to  Mr.  Jo. 
Bentley,  the  last  witness  to  the  Gilson  good 
character) — that  it  had  become  to  him  a  sort 
of  religious  faith.  It  seemed  to  him  the  one 
great  central  arjd  basic  truth  of  life — the  sole 
serene  verity  in  a  world  of  lies. 

On  that  night,  as  he  seated  himself  pen- 
sively upon  the  prostrate  monument,  trying 
by  the  uncertain  moonlight  to  spell  out  the 
epitaph  which  five  years  before  he  had  com- 
posed with  a  chuckle  that  memory  had  not 
recorded,  tears  of  remorse  came  into  his  eyes 
as  he  remembered  that  he  had  been  mainly 
instrumental  in  compassing  by  a  false  accusa- 
tion this  good  man's  death;  for  during  some 
of  the  legal  proceedings,  Mr.  Harper,  for  a 
consideration  (forgotten)  had  come  forward 
and  sworn  that  in  the  little  transaction  with 
his  bay  mare  the  deceased  had  acted  in  strict 
accordance  with  the  Harperian  wishes,  con- 
fidentially communicated  to  the  deceased  and 


278    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

by  him  faithfully  concealed  at  the  cost  of  his 
life.  All  that  Mr.  Brentshaw  had  since  done 
for  the  dead  man's  memory  seemed  pitifully 
inadequate — most  mean,  paltry,  and  debased 
with  selfishness ! 

As  he  sat  there,  torturing  himself  with 
futile  regrets,  a  faint  shadow  fell  across  his 
eyes.  Looking  toward  the  moon,  hanging 
low  in  the  west,  he  saw  what  seemed  a  vague, 
watery  cloud  obscuring  her;  but  as  it  moved 
so  that  her  beams  lit  up  one  side  of  it  he  per- 
ceived the  clear,  sharp  outline  of  a  human 
figure.  The  apparition  became  momentarily 
more  distinct,  and  grew,  visibly;  it  was  draw- 
ing near.  Dazed  as  were  his  senses,  half 
locked  up  with  terror  and  confounded  with 
dreadful  imaginings,  Mr.  Brentshaw  yet 
could  but  perceive,  or  think  he  perceived,  in 
this  unearthly  shape  a  strange  similitude  to 
the  mortal  part  of  the  late  Milton  Gilson,  as 
that  person  had  looked  when  taken  from  The 
Tree  five  years  before.  The  likeness  was  in- 
deed complete,  even  to  the  full,  stony  eyes,  and 
a  certain  shadowy  circle  about  the  neck.  It 
was  without  coat  or  hat,  precisely  as  Gilson 
had  been  when  laid  in  his  poor,  cheap  casket 
by  the  not  ungentle  hands  of  Carpenter  Pete 
— for  whom  some  one  had  long  since  per- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        279 

formed  the  same  neighborly  office.  The 
spectre,  if  such  it  was,  seemed  to  bear  some- 
thing in  its  hands  which  Mr.  Brentshaw  could 
not  clearly  make  out.  It  drew  nearer,  and 
paused  at  last  beside  the  coffin  containing  the 
ashes  of  the  late  Mr.  Gilson,  the  lid  of  which 
was  awry,  half  disclosing  the  uncertain  in- 
terior. Bending  over  this,  the  phantom 
seemed  to  shake  into  it  from  a  basin  some  dark 
substance  of  dubious  consistency,  then  glided 
stealthily  back  to  the  lowest  part  of  the  ceme- 
tery. Here  the  retiring  flood  had  stranded  a 
number  of  open  coffins,  about  and  among 
which  it  gurgled  with  low  sobbings  and  stilly 
whispers.  Stooping  over  one  of  these,  the  ap- 
parition carefully  brushed  its  contents  into  the 
basin,  then  returning  to  its  own  casket, 
emptied  the  vessel  into  that,  as  before.  This 
mysterious  operation  was  repeated  at  every 
exposed  coffin,  the  ghost  sometimes  dipping  its 
laden  basin  into  the  running  water,  and  gently 
agitating  it  to  free  it  of  the  baser  clay,  always 
hoarding  the  residuum  in  its  own  private  box. 
In  short,  the  immortal  part  of  the  late  Milton 
Gilson  was  cleaning  up  the  dust  of  its  neigh- 
bors and  providently  adding  the  same  to  its 
own. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  phantasm  of  a  disordered 


280    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

mind  in  a  fevered  body.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
solemn  farce  enacted  by  pranking  existences 
that  throng  the  shadows  lying  along  the 
border  of  another  world.  God  knows ;  to  us 
is  permitted  only  the  knowledge  that  when 
the  sun  of  another  day  touched  with  a  grace 
of  gold  the  ruined  cemetery  of  Mammon  Hill 
his  kindliest  beam  fell  upon  the  white,  still 
face  of  Henry  Brentshaw,  dead  among  the 
dead. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        281 


THE  APPLICANT 

PUSHING     his     adventurous     shins 
through  the  deep  snow  that  had  fallen 
overnight,  and  encouraged  by  the  glee 
of  his  little  sister,  following  in  the 
open  way  that  he  made,  a  sturdy  small  boy, 
the    son    of  Grayville's    most    distinguished 
citizen,  struck  his  foot  against  something  of 
which  there  was  no  visible  sign  on  the  surface 
of  the  snow.     It  is  the  purpose  of  this  narra- 
tive to  explain  how  it  came  to  be  there. 

No  one  who  has  had  the  advantage  of  pass- 
ing through  Grayville  by  day  can  have  failed 
to  observe  the  large  stone  building  crowning 
the  low  hill  to  the  north  of  the  railway  station 
— that  is  to  say,  to  the  right  in  going  toward 
Great  Mowbray.  It  is  a  somewhat  dull-look- 
ing edifice,  of  the  Early  Comatose  order,  and 
appears  to  have  been  designed  by  an  architect 
who  shrank  from  publicity,  and  although  un- 
able to  conceal  his  work — even  compelled,  in 
this  instance,  to  set  it  on  an  eminence  in  the 
sight  of  men — did  what  he  honestly  could  to 
insure  it  against  a  second  look.  So  far  as  con- 
cerns its  outer  and  visible  aspect,  the  Aber- 


282    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

sush  Home  for  Old  Men  is  unquestionably  in- 
hospitable to  human  attention.  But  it  is  a 
building  of  great  magnitude,  and  cost  its 
benevolent  founder  the  profit  of  many  a  cargo 
of  the  teas  and  silks  and  spices  that  his  ships 
brought  up  from  the  under-world  when  he 
was  in  trade  in  Boston;  though  the  main  ex- 
pense was  its  endowment.  Altogether,  this 
reckless  person  had  robbed  his  heirs-at-law  of 
no  less  a  sum  than  half  a  million  dollars  and 
flung  it  away  in  riotous  giving.  Possibly  it 
was  with  a  view  to  get  out  of  sight  of  the  si- 
lent big  witness  to  his  extravagance  that  he 
shortly  afterward  disposed  of  all  his  Gray- 
ville  property  that  remained  to  him,  turned 
his  back  upon  the  scene  of  his  prodigality  and 
went  off  across  the  sea  in  one  of  his  own  ships. 
But  the  gossips  who  got  their  inspiration  most 
directly  from  Heaven  declared  that  he  went  in 
search  of  a  wife — a  theory  not  easily  recon- 
ciled with  that  of  the  village  humorist,  who 
solemnly  averred  that  the  bachelor  philan- 
thropist had  departed  this  life  (left  Grayville, 
to  wit)  because  the  marriageable  maidens  had 
made  it  too  hot  to  hold  him.  However  this 
may  have  been,  he  had  not  returned,  and  al- 
though at  long  intervals  there  had  come  to 
Grayville,  in  a  desultory  way,  vague  rumors 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       283 

of  his  wanderings  in  strange  lands,  no  one 
seemed  certainly  to  know  about  him,  and  to 
the  new  generation  he  was  no  more  than  a 
name.  But  from  above  the  portal  of  the 
Home  for  Old  Men  the  name  shouted  in 
stone. 

Despite  its  unpromising  exterior,  the  Home 
is  a  fairly  commodious  place  of  retreat  from 
the  ills  that  its  inmates  have  incurred  by  being 
poor  and  old  and  men.  At  the  time  embraced 
in  this  brief  chronicle  they  were  in  number 
about  a  score,  but  in  acerbity,  querulousness, 
and  general  ingratitude  they  could  hardly  be 
reckoned  at  fewer  than  a  hundred;  at  least 
that  was  the  estimate  of  the  superintendent, 
Mr.  Silas  Tilbody.  It  was  Mr.  Tilbody's 
steadfast  conviction  that  always,  in  admitting 
new  old  men  to  replace  those  who  had  gone  to 
another  and  a  better  Home,  the  trustees  had 
distinctly  in  will  the  infraction  of  his  peace, 
and  the  trial  of  his  patience.  In  truth,  the 
longer  the  institution  was  connected  with  him, 
the  stronger  was  his  feeling  that  the  founder's 
scheme  of  benevolence  was  sadly  impaired  by 
providing  any  inmates  at  all.  He  had  not 
much  imagination,  but  with  what  he  had  he 
was  addicted  to  the  reconstruction  of  the 
Home  for  Old  Men  into  a  kind  of  "  castle  in 


284    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Spain,"  with  himself  as  castellan,  hospitably 
entertaining  about  a  score  of  sleek  and  pros- 
perous middle-aged  gentlemen,  consummately 
good-humored  and  civilly  willing  to  pay  for 
their  board  and  lodging.  In  this  revised  pro- 
ject of  philanthropy  the  trustees,  to  whom  he 
was  indebted  for  his  office  and  responsible  for 
his  conduct,  had  not  the  happiness  to  appear. 
As  to  them,  it  was  held  by  the  village  humor- 
ist aforementioned  that  in  their  management 
of  the  great  charity  Providence  had  thought- 
fully supplied  an  incentive  to  thrift.  With 
the  inference  which  he  expected  to  be  drawn 
from  that  view  we  have  nothing  to  do ;  it  had 
neither  support  nor  denial  from  the  inmates, 
who  certainly  were  most  concerned.  They 
lived  out  their  little  remnant  of  life,  crept  into 
graves  neatly  numbered,  and  were  succeeded 
by  other  old  men  as  like  them  as  could  be  de- 
sired by  the  Adversary  of  Peace.  If  the 
Home  was  a  place  of  punishment  for  the  sin 
of  unthrift  the  veteran  offenders  sought 
justice  with  a  persistence  that  attested  the 
sincerity  of  their  penitence.  It  is  to  one  of 
these  that  the  reader's  attention  is  now  invited. 
In  the  matter  of  attire  this  person  was  not 
altogether  engaging.  But  for  this  season, 
which  was  midwinter,  a  careless  observer 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        285 

might  have  looked  upon  him  as  a  clever  de- 
vice of  the  husbandman  indisposed  to  share 
the  fruits  of  his  toil  with  the  crows  that  toil 
not,  neither  spin — an  error  that  might  not 
have  been  dispelled  without  longer  and 
closer  observation  than  he  seemed  to  court; 
for  his  progress  up  Abersush  Street,  toward 
the  Home  in  the  gloom  of  the  winter  evening, 
was  not  visibly  faster  than  what  might  have 
been  expected  of  a  scarecrow  blessed  with 
youth,  health,  and  discontent.  The  man  was 
indisputably  ill-clad,  yet  not  without  a  certain 
fitness  and  good  taste,  withal ;  for  he  was  ob- 
viously an  applicant  for  admittance  to  the 
Home,  where  poverty  was  a  qualification.  In 
the  army  of  indigence  the  uniform  is  rags; 
they  serve  to  distinguish  the  rank  and  file 
from  the  recruiting  officers. 

As  the  old  man,  entering  the  gate  of  the 
grounds,  shuffled  up  the  broad  walk,  already 
white  with  the  fast-falling  snow,  which  from 
time  to  time  he  feebly  shook  from  its  various 
coigns  of  vantage  on  his  person,  he  came  un- 
der inspection  of  the  large  globe  lamp  that 
burned  always  by  night  over  the  great  door 
of  the  building.  As  if  unwilling  to  incur  its 
revealing  beams,  he  turned  to  the  left  and, 
passing  a  considerable  distance  along  the  face 


286    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

of  the  building,  rang  at  a  smaller  door  emitt- 
ing a  dimmer  ray  that  came  from  within, 
through  the  fanlight,  and  expended  itself 
incuriously  overhead.  The  door  was  opened 
by  no  less  a  personage  than  the  great  Mr.  Til- 
body  himself.  Observing  his  visitor,  who  at 
once  uncovered,  and  somewhat  shortened  the 
radius  of  the  permanent  curvature  of  his  back, 
the  great  man  gave  visible  token  of  neither 
surprise  nor  displeasure.  Mr.  Tilbody  was, 
indeed,  in  an  uncommonly  good  humor,  a 
phenomenon  ascribable  doubtless  to  the  cheer- 
ful influence  of  the  season ;  for  this  was  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  the  morrow  would  be  that 
blessed  365^1  part  of  the  year  that  all  Christ- 
ian souls  set  apart  for  mighty  feats  of  good- 
ness and  joy.  Mr.  Tilbody  was  so  full  of  the 
spirit  of  the  season  that  his  fat  face  and  pale 
blue  eyes,  whose  ineffectual  fire  served  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  an  untimely  summer  squash, 
effused  so  genial  a  glow  that  it  seemed  a  pity 
that  he  could  not  have  lain  down  in  it,  bask- 
ing in  the  consciousness  of  his  own  identity. 
He  was  hatted,  booted,  overcoated,  and  um- 
brellaed,  as  became  a  person  who  was  about  to 
expose  himself  to  the  night  and  the  storm  on 
an  errand  of  charity;  for  Mr.  Tilbody  had 
just  parted  from  his  wife  and  children  to  go 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       287 

"  down  town  "  and  purchase  the  wherewithal 
to  confirm  the  annual  falsehood  about  the 
hunch-bellied  saint  who  frequents  the  chim- 
neys to  reward  little  boys  and  girls  who  are 
good,  and  especially  truthful.  So  he  did  not 
invite  the  old  man  in,  but  saluted  him  cheer- 
ily: 

"  Hello!  just  in  time;  a  moment  later  and 
you  would  have  missed  me.  Come,  I  have 
no  time  to  waste;  we'll  walk  a  little  way  to- 
gether." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  old  man,  upon 
whose  thin  and  white  but  not  ignoble  face  the 
light  from  the  open  door  showed  an  expres- 
sion that  was  perhaps  disappointment;  "but 
if  the  trustees — if  my  application " 

"The  trustees,"  Mr.  Tilbody  said,  closing 
more  doors  than  one,  and  cutting  off  two  kinds 
of  light,  "  have  agreed  that  your  application 
disagrees  with  them." 

Certain  sentiments  are  inappropriate  to 
Christmastide,  but  Humor,  like  Death,  has  all 
seasons  for  his  own. 

"Oh,  my  Godl"  cried  the  old  man,  in  so 
thin  and  husky  a  tone  that  the  invocation  was 
anything  but  impressive,  and  to  at  least  one 
of  his  two  auditors  sounded,  indeed,  somewhat 
ludicrous.  To  the  Other — but  that  is  a  mat- 


288    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ter  which  laymen  are  devoid  of  the  light  to 
expound. 

"Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Tilbody,  accom- 
modating his  gait  to  that  of  his  companion, 
who  was  mechanically,  and  not  very  success- 
fully, retracing  the  track  that  he  had  made 
through  the  snow;  "they  have  decided  that, 
under  the  circumstances — under  the  very 
peculiar  circumstances,  you  understand — it 
would  be  inexpedient  to  admit  you.  As 
superintendent  and  ex  officio  secretary  of  the 
honorable  board" — as  Mr.  Tilbody  "read 
his  title  clear"  the  magnitude  of  the  big 
building,  seen  through  its  veil  of  falling  snow, 
appeared  to  suffer  somewhat  in  comparison — 
"  it  is  my  duty  to  inform  you  that,  in  the  words 
of  Deacon  Byram,  the  chairman,  your  pres- 
ence in  the  Home  would — under  the  circum- 
stances— be  peculiarly  embarrassing.  I  felt  it 
my  duty  to  submit  to  the  honorable  board  the 
statement  that  you  made  to  me  yesterday  of 
your  needs,  your  physical  condition,  and  the 
trials  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  send 
upon  you  in  your  very  proper  effort  to  present 
your  claims  in  person ;  but,  after  careful,  and 
I  may  say  prayerful,  consideration  of  your 
case — with  something  too,  I  trust,  of  the  large 
charitableness  appropriate  to  the  season — it 
was  decided  that  we  would  not  be  justified  in 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       289 

doing  anything  likely  to  impair  the  usefulness 
of  the  institution  intrusted  (under  Provi- 
dence) to  our  care." 

They  had  now  passed  out  of  the  grounds; 
the  street  lamp  opposite  the  gate  was  dimly 
visible  through  the  snow.  Already  the  old 
man's  former  track  was  obliterated,  and  he 
seemed  uncertain  as  to  which  way  he  should 
go.  Mr.  Tilbody  had  drawn  a  little  away 
from  him,  but  paused  and  turned  half  toward 
him,  apparently  reluctant  to  forego  the  con- 
tinuing opportunity. 

"  Under  the  circumstances,"  he  resumed, 
"  the  decision " 

But  the  old  man  was  inaccessible  to  the 
suasion  of  his  verbosity;  he  had  crossed  the 
street  into  a  vacant  lot  and  was  going  forward, 
rather  deviously  toward  nowhere  in  particular 
— which,  he  having  nowhere  in  particular  to 
go  to,  was  not  so  reasonless  a  proceeding  as  it 
looked. 

And  that  is  how  it  happened  that  the  next 
morning,  when  the  church  bells  of  all  Gray- 
ville  were  ringing  with  an  added  unction  ap- 
propriate to  the  day,  the  sturdy  little  son  of 
Deacon  Byram,  breaking  a  way  through  the 
snow  to  the  place  of  worship,  struck  his  foot 
against  the  body  of  Amasa  Abersush,  philan- 
thropist. 


290    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

A  WATCHER  BY  THE  DEAD 

I 

IN  an  upper  room  of  an  unoccupied  dwell- 
ing in  the  part  of  San  Francisco  known  as 
North  Beach  lay  the  body  of  a  man,  un- 
der a  sheet.  The  hour  was  near  nine  in 
the  evening;  the  room  was  dimly  lighted  by  a 
single  candle.  Although  the  weather  was 
warm,  the  two  windows,  contrary  to  the  cus- 
tom which  gives  the  dead  plenty  of  air,  were 
closed  and  the  blinds  drawn  down.  The 
furniture  of  the  room  consisted  of  but  three 
pieces — an  arm-chair,  a  small  reading-stand 
supporting  the  candle,  and  a  long  kitchen 
table,  supporting  the  body  of  the  man.  All 
these,  as  also  the  corpse,  seemed  to  have  been 
recently  brought  in,  for  an  observer,  had  there 
been  one,  would  have  seen  that  all  were  free 
from  dust,  whereas  everything  else  in  the  room 
was  pretty  thickly  coated  with  it,  and  there 
were  cobwebs  in  the  angles  of  the  walls. 

Under  the  sheet  the  outlines  of  the  body 
could  be  traced,  even  the  features,  these  hav- 
ing that  unnaturally  sharp  definition  which 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       291 

seems  to  belong  to  faces  of  the  dead,  but  is 
really  characteristic  of  those  only  that  have 
been  wasted  by  disease.  From  the  silence  of 
the  room  one  would  rightly  have  inferred 
that  it  was  not  in  the  front  of  the  house,  fac- 
ing a  street.  It  really  faced  nothing  but  a 
high  breast  of  rock,  the  rear  of  the  building 
being  set  into  a  hill. 

As  a  neighboring  church  clock  was  striking 
nine  with  an  indolence  which  seemed  to  imply 
such  an  indifference  to  the  flight  of  time  that 
one  could  hardly  help  wondering  why  it  took 
the  trouble  to  strike  at  all,  the  single  door  of 
the  room  was  opened  and  a  man  entered,  ad- 
vancing toward  the  body.  As  he  did  so  the 
door  closed,  apparently  of  its  own  volition; 
there  was  a  grating,  as  of  a  key  turned  with 
difficulty,  and  the  snap  of  the  lock  bolt  as  it 
shot  into  its  socket.  A  sound  of  retiring  foot- 
steps in  the  passage  outside  ensued,  and  the 
man  was  to  all  appearance  a  prisoner.  Ad- 
vancing to  the  table,  he  stood  a  moment  look- 
ing down  at  the  body ;  then  with  a  slight  shrug 
of  the  shoulders  walked  over  to  one  of  the 
windows  and  hoisted  the  blind.  The  dark- 
ness outside  was  absolute,  the  panes  were  cov- 
ered with  dust,  but  by  wiping  this  away  he 
could  see  that  the  window  was  fortified  with 


292    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

strong  iron  bars  crossing  it  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  glass  and  imbedded  in  the  masonry  on 
each  side.  He  examined  the  other  window. 
It  was  the  same.  He  manifested  no  great 
curiosity  in  the  matter,  did  not  even  so  much 
as  raise  the  sash.  If  he  was  a  prisoner  he  was 
apparently  a  tractable  one.  Having  com- 
pleted his  examination  of  the  room,  he  seated 
himself  in  the  arm-chair,  took  a  book  from 
his  pocket,  drew  the  stand  with  its  candle 
alongside  and  began  to  read. 

The  man  was  young — not  more  than  thirty 
• — dark  in  complexion,  smooth-shaven,  with 
brown  hair.  His  face  was  thin  and  high- 
nosed,  with  a  broad  forehead  and  a  "firm- 
ness" of  the  chin  and  jaw  which  is  said  by 
those  having  it  to  denote  resolution.  The 
eyes  were  gray  and  steadfast,  not  moving  ex- 
cept with  definitive  purpose.  They  were  now 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  fixed  upon  his 
book,  but  he  occasionally  withdrew  them  and 
turned  them  to  the  body  on  the  table,  not,  ap- 
parently, from  any  dismal  fascination  which 
under  such  circumstances  it  might  be  sup- 
posed to  exercise  upon  even  a  courageous  per- 
son, nor  with  a  conscious  rebellion  against  the 
contrary  influence  which  might  dominate  a 
timid  one.  He  looked  at  it  as  if  in  his  read- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        293 

ing  he  had  come  upon  something  recalling 
him  to  a  sense  of  his  surroundings.  Clearly 
this  watcher  by  the  dead  was  discharging  his 
trust  with  intelligence  and  composure,  as  be- 
came him. 

After  reading  for  perhaps  a  half-hour  he 
seemed  to  come  to  the  end  of  a  chapter  and 
quietly  laid  away  the  book.  He  then  rose  and 
taking  the  reading-stand  from  the  floor 
carried  it  into  a  corner  of  the  room  near  one 
of  the  windows,  lifted  the  candle  from  it  and 
returned  to  the  empty  fireplace  before  which 
he  had  been  sitting. 

A  moment  later  he  walked  over  to  the  body 
on  the  table,  lifted  the  sheet  and  turned  it 
back  from  the  head,  exposing  a  mass  of  dark 
hair  and  a  thin  face-cloth,  beneath  which  the 
features  showed  with  even  sharper  definition 
than  before.  Shading  his  eyes  by  interposing 
his  free  hand  between  them  and  the  candle,  he 
stood  looking  at  his  motionless  companion  with 
a  serious  and  tranquil  regard.  Satisfied  with 
his  inspection,  he  pulled  the  sheet  over  the 
face  again  and  returning  to  the  chair,  took 
some  matches  off  the  candlestick,  put  them  in 
the  side  pocket  of  his  sack-coat  and  sat  down. 
He  then  lifted  the  candle  from  its  socket  and 
looked  at  it  critically,  as  if  calculating  how 


294    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

long  it  would  last.  It  was  barely  two  inches 
long;  in  another  hour  he  would  be  in  dark- 
ness. He  replaced  it  in  the  candlestick  and 
blew  it  out. 

II 

In  a  physician's  office  in  Kearny  Street 
three  men  sat  about  a  table,  drinking  punch 
and  smoking.  It  was  late  in  the  evening,  al- 
most midnight,  indeed,  and  there  had  been  no 
lack  of  punch.  The  gravest  of  the  three,  Dr. 
Helberson,  was  the  host — it  was  in  his  rooms 
they  sat.  He  was  about  thirty  years  of  age; 
the  others  were  even  younger;  all  were 
physicians. 

"  The  superstitious  awe  with  which  the  liv- 
ing regard  the  dead,"  said  Dr.  Helberson,  "  is 
hereditary  and  incurable.  One  needs  no 
more  be  ashamed  of  it  than  of  the  fact  that 
he  inherits,  for  example,  an  incapacity  for 
mathematics,  or  a  tendency  to  lie." 

The  others  laughed.  "  Oughtn't  a  man  to  be 
ashamed  to  lie?"  asked  the  youngest  of  the 
three,  who  was  in  fact  a  medical  student  not 
yet  graduated. 

"My  dear  Harper,  I  said  nothing  about 
that.  The  tendency  to  lie  is  one  thing ;  lying 
is  another." 

"But  do  you  think,"  said  the  third  man, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        295 

"that  this  superstitious  feeling,  this  fear  of 
the  dead,  reasonless  as  we  know  it  to  be,  is 
universal?  I  am  myself  not  conscious  of  it." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is '  in  your  system '  for  all  that," 
replied  Helberson;  "it  needs  only  the  right 
conditions — what  Shakespeare  calls  the  '  con- 
federate season' — to  manifest  itself  in  some 
very  disagreeable  way  that  will  open  your 
eyes.  Physicians  and  soldiers  are  of  course 
more  nearly  free  from  it  than  others." 

"  Physicians  and  soldiers! — why  don't  you 
add  hangmen  and  headsmen?  Let  us  have  in 
all  the  assassin  classes." 

"  No,  my  dear  Mancher;  the  juries  will  not 
let  the  public  executioners  acquire  sufficient 
familiarity  with  death  to  be  altogether  un- 
moved by  it." 

Young  Harper,  who  had  been  helping  him- 
self to  a  fresh  cigar  at  the  sideboard,  resumed 
his  seat.  "  What  would  you  consider  condi- 
tions under  which  any  man  of  woman  born 
would  become  insupportably  conscious  of  his 
share  of  our  common  weakness  in  this  re- 
gard? "  he  asked,  rather  verbosely. 

"Well,  I  should  say  that  if  a  man  were 
locked  up  all  night  with  a  corpse — alone — in 
a  dark  room — of  a  vacant  house — with  no  bed 
covers  to  pull  over  his  head — and  lived 


296    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

through  it  without  going  altogether  mad,  he 
might  justly  boast  himself  not  of  woman  born, 
nor  yet,  like  Macduff,  a  product  of  Caesarean 
section." 

"  I  thought  you  never  would  finish  piling 
up  conditions,"  said  Harper,  "but  I  know  a 
man  who  is  neither  a  physician  nor  a  soldier 
who  will  accept  them  all,  for  any  stake  you 
like  to  name." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  His  name  is  Jarette — a  stranger  here ; 
comes  from  my  town  in  New  York.  I  have 
no  money  to  back  him,  but  he  will  back  him- 
self with  loads  of  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"He  would  rather  bet  than  eat.  As  for 
fear — I  dare  say  he  thinks  it  some  cutaneous 
disorder,  or  possibly  a  particular  kind  of  relig- 
ious heresy." 

"What  does  he  look  like?"  Helberson 
was  evidently  becoming  interested. 

"Like  Mancher,  here — might  be  his  twin 
brother." 

"  I  accept  the  challenge,"  said  Helberson, 
promptly. 

"Awfully  obliged  to  you  for  the  compli- 
ment, I'm  sure,"  drawled  Mancher,  who  was 
growing  sleepy.  "Can't  I  get  into  this?" 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       297 

"Not  against  me,"  Helberson  said.  "I 
don't  want  your  money." 

"All  right,"  said  Mancher;  "I'll  be  the 
corpse." 

The  others  laughed. 

The  outcome  of  this  crazy  conversation  we 
have  seen. 

Ill 

In  extinguishing  his  meagre  allowance  of 
candle  Mr.  Jarette's  object  was  to  preserve  it 
against  some  unforeseen  need.  He  may  have 
thought,  too,  or  half  thought,  that  the  dark- 
ness would  be  no  worse  at  one  time  than  an- 
other, and  if  the  situation  became  insupport- 
able it  would  be  better  to  have  a  means  of 
relief,  or  even  release.  At  any  rate  it  was 
wise  to  have  a  little  reserve  of  light,  even  if 
only  to  enable  him  to  look  at  his  watch. 

No  sooner  had  he  blown  out  the  candle  and 
set  it  on  the  floor  at  his  side  than  he  settled 
himself  comfortably  in  the  arm-chair,  leaned 
back  and  closed  his  eyes,  hoping  and  expect- 
ing to  sleep.  In  this  he  was  disappointed ;  he 
had  never  in  his  life  felt  less  sleepy,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  he  gave  up  the  attempt.  But 
what  could  he  do?  He  could  not  go  groping 
about  in  absolute  darkness  at  the  risk  of 
bruising  himself — at  the  risk,  too,  of  blunder- 


298    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ing  against  the  table  and  rudely  disturbing 
the  dead.  We  all  recognize  their  right  to  lie 
at  rest,  with  immunity  from  all  that  is  harsh 
and  violent.  Jarette  almost  succeeded  in 
making  himself  believe  that  considerations  of 
this  kind  restrained  him  from  risking  the  col- 
lision and  fixed  him  to  the  chair. 

While  thinking  of  this  matter  he  fancied 
that  he  heard  a  faint  sound  in  the  direction  of 
the  table — what  kind  of  sound  he  could  hardly 
have  explained.  He  did  not  turn  his  head. 
Why  should  he — in  the  darkness?  But  he 
listened — why  should  he  not?  And  listening 
he  grew  giddy  and  grasped  the  arms  of  the 
chair  for  support.  There  was  a  strange  ring- 
ing in  his  ears;  his  head  seemed  bursting;  his 
chest  was  oppressed  by  the  constriction  of  his 
clothing.  He  wondered  why  it  was  so,  and 
whether  these  were  symptoms  of  fear.  Then, 
with  a  long  and  strong  expiration,  his  chest 
appeared  to  collapse,  and  with  the  great  gasp 
with  which  he  refilled  his  exhausted  lungs  the 
vertigo  left  him  and  he  knew  that  so  intently 
had  he  listened  that  he  had  held  his  breath  al- 
most to  suffocation.  The  revelation  was 
vexatious;  he  arose,  pushed  away  the  chair 
with  his  foot  and  strode  to  the  centre  of  the 
room.  But  one  does  not  stride  far  in  dark- 


DF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        299 

ness ;  he  began  to  grope,  and  finding  the  wall 
followed  it  to  an  angle,  turned,  followed  it 
past  the  two  windows  and  there  in  another 
corner  came  into  violent  contact  with  the 
reading-stand,  overturning  it.  It  made  a 
clatter  that  startled  him.  He  was  annoyed. 
"  How  the  devil  could  I  have  forgotten  where 
it  was?"  he  muttered,  and  groped  his  way 
along  the  third  wall  to  the  fireplace.  "  I  must 
put  things  to  rights,"  said  he,  feeling  the  floor 
for  the  candle. 

Having  recovered  that,  he  lighted  it  and 
instantly  turned  his  eyes  to  the  table,  where, 
naturally,  nothing  had  undergone  any  change. 
The  reading-stand  lay  unobserved  upon  the 
floor:  he  had  forgotten  to  "put  it  to  rights." 
He  looked  all  about  the  room,  dispersing  the 
deeper  shadows  by  movements  of  the  candle  in 
his  hand,  and  crossing  over  to  the  door  tested 
it  by  turning  and  pulling  the  knob  with  all  his 
strength.  It  did  not  yield  and  this  seemed  to 
afford  him  a  certain  satisfaction;  indeed,  he 
secured  it  more  firmly  by  a  bolt  which  he  had 
not  before  observed.  Returning  to  his  chair, 
he  looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  half-past  nine. 
With  a  start  of  surprise  he  held  the  watch  at 
his  ear.  It  had  not  stopped.  The  candle 
was  now  visibly  shorter.  He  again  extin- 


300    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

guished  it,  placing  it  on  the  floor  at  his  side 
as  before. 

Mr.  Jarette  was  not  at  his  ease;  he  was  dis- 
tinctly dissatisfied  with  his  surroundings,  and 
with  himself  for  being  so.  "  What  have  I  to 
fear?"  he  thought.  "This  is  ridiculous  and 
disgraceful;  I  will  not  be  so  great  a  fool." 
But  courage  does  not  come  of  saying,  "  I  will 
be  courageous,"  nor  of  recognizing  its  appro- 
priateness to  the  occasion.  The  more  Jarette 
condemned  himself,  the  more  reason  he  gave 
himself  for  condemnation;  the  greater  the 
number  of  variations  which  he  played  upon 
the  simple  theme  of  the  harmlessness  of  the 
dead,  the  more  insupportable  grew  the  discord 
of  his  emotions.  "What!"  he  cried  aloud  in 
the  anguish  of  his  spirit,  "what I  shall  I,  who 
have  not  a  shade  of  superstition  in  my  nature 
— I,  who  have  no  belief  in  immortality — I, 
who  know  (and  never  more  clearly  than  now) 
that  the  after-life  is  the  dream  of  a  desire — 
shall  I  lose  at  once  my  bet,  my  honor  and  my 
self-respect,  perhaps  my  reason,  because  cer- 
tain savage  ancestors  dwelling  in  caves  and 
burrows  conceived  the  monstrous  notion  that 
the  dead  walk  by  night? — that "  Dis- 
tinctly, unmistakably,  Mr.  Jarette  heard  be- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        301 

hind  him  a  light,  soft  sound  of  footfalls,  de- 
liberate, regular,  successively  nearer! 

IV 

Just  before  daybreak  the  next  morning  Dr. 
Helberson  and  his  young  friend  Harper  were 
driving  slowly  through  the  streets  of  North 
Beach  in  the  doctor's  coupe. 

"  Have  you  still  the  confidence  of  youth  in 
the  courage  or  stolidity  of  your  friend?  "  said 
the  elder  man.  "  Do  you  believe  that  I  have 
lost  this  wager?" 

"  I  know  you  have,"  replied  the  other,  with 
enfeebling  emphasis. 

"  Well,  upon  my  soul,  I  hope  so." 

It  was  spoken  earnestly,  almost  solemnly. 
There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Harper,"  the  doctor  resumed,  looking 
very  serious  in  the  shifting  half-lights  that 
entered  the  carriage  as  they  passed  the  street 
lamps,  "I  don't  feel  altogether  comfortable 
about  this  business.  If  your  friend  had  not 
irritated  me  by  the  contemptuous  manner  in 
which  he  treated  my  doubt  of  his  endurance 
— a  purely  physical  quality — and  by  the  cool 
incivility  of  his  suggestion  that  the  corpse  be 
that  of  a  physician,  I  should  not  have  gone 


302    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

on  with  it.  If  anything  should  happen  we 
are  ruined,  as  I  fear  we  deserve  to  be." 

"What  can  happen?  Even  if  the  matter 
should  be  taking  a  serious  turn,  of  which  I 
am  not  at  all  afraid,  Mancher  has  only  to 
*  resurrect'  himself  and  explain  matters. 
With  a  genuine  '  subject '  from  the  dissecting- 
room,  or  one  of  your  late  patients,  it  might  be 
different." 

Dr.  Mancher,  then,  had  been  as  good  as  his 
promise;  he  was  the  "  corpse." 

Dr.  Helberson  was  silent  for  a  long  time, 
as  the  carriage,  at  a  snail's  pace,  crept  along 
the  same  street  it  had  traveled  two  or  three 
times  already.  Presently  he  spoke:  "Well, 
let  us  hope  that  Mancher,  if  he  has  had  to 
rise  from  the  dead,  has  been  discreet  about  it. 
A  mistake  in  that  might  make  matters  worse 
instead  of  better." 

"Yes,"  said  Harper,  "Jarette  would  kill 
him.  But,  Doctor" — looking  at  his  watch  as 
the  carriage  passed  a  gas  lamp — "  it  is  nearly 
four  o'clock  at  last." 

A  moment  later  the  two  had  quitted  the 
vehicle  and  were  walking  briskly  toward  the 
long-unoccupied  house  belonging  to  the  doc- 
tor in  which  they  had  immured  Mr.  Jarette 
in  accordance  with  the  terms  of  the  mad 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        303 

wager.  As  they  neared  it  they  met  a  man 
running.  "  Can  you  tell  me,"  he  cried,  sud- 
denly checking  his  speed,  "where  I  can  find 
a  doctor?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  Helberson  asked, 
non-committal. 

"Go  and  see  for  yourself,"  said  the  man, 
resuming  his  running. 

They  hastened  on.  Arrived  at  the  house, 
they  saw  several  persons  entering  in  haste  and 
excitement.  In  some  of  the  dwellings  near 
by  and  across  the  way  the  chamber  windows 
were  thrown  up,  showing  a  protrusion  of 
heads.  All  heads  were  asking  questions,  none 
heeding  the  questions  of  the  others.  A  few 
of  the  windows  with  closed  blinds  were  illum- 
inated; the  inmates  of  those  rooms  were 
dressing  to  come  down.  Exactly  opposite  the 
door  of  the  house  that  they  sought  a  street 
lamp  threw  a  yellow,  insufficient  light  upon 
the  scene,  seeming  to  say  that  it  could  disclose 
a  good  deal  more  if  it  wished.  Harper 
paused  at  the  door  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
companion's  arm.  "  It  is  all  up  with  us,  Doc- 
tor," he  said  in  extreme  agitation,  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  his  free-and-easy 
words;  "the  game  has  gone  against  us  all. 
Let's  not  go  in  there;  I'm  for  lying  low." 


304    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"I'm  a  physician,"  said  Dr.  Helberson, 
calmly;  "there  may  be  need  of  one." 

They  mounted  the  doorsteps  and  were  about 
to  enter.  The  door  was  open ;  the  street  lamp 
opposite  lighted  the  passage  into  which  it 
opened.  It  was  full  of  men.  Some  had  as- 
cended the  stairs  at  the  farther  end,  and, 
denied  admittance  above,  waited  for  better 
fortune.  All  were  talking,  none  listening. 
Suddenly,  on  the  upper  landing  there  was  a 
great  commotion;  a  man  had  sprung  out  of  a 
door  and  was  breaking  away  from  those  en- 
deavoring to  detain  him.  Down  through  the 
mass  of  affrighted  idlers  he  came,  pushing 
them  aside,  flattening  them  against  the  wall 
on  one  side,  or  compelling  them  to  cling  to  the 
rail  on  the  other,  clutching  them  by  the  throat, 
striking  them  savagely,  thrusting  them  back 
down  the  stairs  and  walking  over  the  fallen. 
His  clothing  was  in  disorder,  he  was  without 
a  hat.  His  eyes,  wild  and  restless,  had  in 
them  something  more  terrifying  than  his  ap- 
parently superhuman  strength.  His  face, 
smooth-shaven,  was  bloodless,  his  hair  frost- 
white. 

As  the  crowd  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  hav- 
ing more  freedom,  fell  away  to  let  him  pass 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        305 

Harper  sprang  forward.  "  Jarette !  Jarette ! " 
he  cried. 

Dr.  Helberson  seized  Harper  by  the  collar 
and  dragged  him  back.  The  man  looked 
into  their  faces  without  seeming  to  see  them 
and  sprang  through  the  door,  down  the  steps, 
into  the  street,  and  away.  A  stout  policeman, 
who  had  had  inferior  success  in  conquering 
his  way  down  the  stairway,  followed  a  mo- 
ment later  and  started  in  pursuit,  all  the  heads 
in  the  windows — those  of  women  and  children 
now — screaming  in  guidance. 

The  stairway  being  now  partly  cleared, 
most  of  the  crowd  having  rushed  down  to 
the  street  to  observe  the  flight  and  pursuit,  Dr. 
Helberson  mounted  to  the  landing,  followed 
by  Harper.  At  a  door  in  the  upper  passage 
an  officer  denied  them  admittance.  "  We  are 
physicians,"  said  the  doctor,  and  they  passed 
in.  The  room  was  full  of  men,  dimly  seen, 
crowded  about  a  table.  The  newcomers 
edged  their  way  forward  and  looked  over  the 
shoulders  of  those  in  the  front  rank.  Upon 
the  table,  the  lower  limbs  covered  with  a 
sheet,  lay  the  body  of  a  man,  brilliantly  illum- 
inated by  the  beam  of  a  bull's-eye  lantern 
held  by  a  policeman  standing  at  the  feet.  The 


306    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

others,  excepting  those  near  the  head — the  of- 
ficer himself — all  were  in  darkness.  The  face 
of  the  body  showed  yellow,  repulsive,  hor- 
rible! The  eyes  were  partly  open  and  up- 
turned and  the  jaw  fallen;  traces  of  froth  de- 
filed the  lips,  the  chin,  the  cheeks.  A  tall 
man,  evidently  a  doctor,  bent  over  the  body 
with  his  hand  thrust  under  the  shirt  front. 
He  withdrew  it  and  placed  two  fingers  in  the 
open  mouth.  "This  man  has  been  about  six 
hours  dead,"  said  he.  "  It  is  a  case  for  the 
coroner." 

He  drew  a  card  from  his  pocket,  handed  it 
to  the  officer  and  made  his  way  toward  the 
door. 

"  Clear  the  room — out,  all  I."  said  the  offic- 
er, sharply,  and  the  body  disappeared  as  if 
it  had  been  snatched  away,  as  shifting  the 
lantern  he  flashed  its  beam  of  light  here  and 
there  against  the  faces  of  the  crowd.  The 
effect  was  amazing!  The  men,  blinded,  con- 
fused, almost  terrified,  made  a  tumultuous 
rush  for  the  door,  pushing,  crowding,  and 
tumbling  over  one  another  as  they  fled,  like 
the  hosts  of  Night  before  the  shafts  of  Apollo. 
Upon  the  struggling,  trampling  mass  the  offi- 
cer poured  his  light  without  pity  and  without 
cessation.  Caught  in  the  current,  Helberson 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        307 

and  Harper  were  swept  out  of  the  room  and 
cascaded  down  the  stairs  into  the  street. 

"  Good  God,  Doctor!  did  I  not  tell  you  that 
Jarette  would  kill  him?  "  said  Harper,  as  soon 
as  they  were  clear  of  the  crowd. 

"  I  believe  you  did,"  replied  the  other, 
without  apparent  emotion. 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  block  after 
block.  Against  the  graying  east  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  hill  tribes  showed  in  silhouette. 
The  familiar  milk  wagon  was  already  astir 
in  the  streets;  the  baker's  man  would  soon 
come  upon  the  scene;  the  newspaper  carrier 
was  abroad  in  the  land. 

"  It  strikes  me,  youngster,"  said  Helberson, 
"  that  you  and  I  have  been  having  too  much 
of  the  morning  air  lately.  It  is  unwhole- 
some ;  we  need  a  change.  What  do  you  say  to 
a  tour  in  Europe?" 

"When?" 

"  I'm  not  particular.  I  should  suppose 
that  four  o'clock  this  afternoon  would  be  early 
enough." 

"  I'll  meet  you  at  the  boat,"  said  Harper. 

V 

Seven  years  afterward  these  two  men  sat 
upon  a  bench  in  Madison  Square,  New  York, 


308    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

in  familiar  conversation.  Another  man,  who 
had  been  observing  them  for  some  time,  him- 
self unobserved,  approached  and,  courteously 
lifting  his  hat  from  locks  as  white  as  frost, 
said:  "I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,  but 
when  you  have  killed  a  man  by  coming  to  life, 
it  is  best  to  change  clothes  with  him,  and  at 
the  first  opportunity  make  a  break  for  liberty." 

Helberson  and  Harper  exchanged  signific- 
ant glances.  They  were  obviously  amused. 
The  former  then  looked  the  stranger  kindly  in 
the  eye  and  replied: 

"  That  has  always  been  my  plan.  I  entirely 
agree  with  you  as  to  its  advant " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  rose  and  went  white. 
He  stared  at  the  man,  open-mouthed;  he 
trembled  visibly. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  stranger,  "  I  see  that  you 
are  indisposed,  Doctor.  If  you  cannot  treat 
yourself  Dr.  Harper  can  do  something  for 
you,  I  am  sure." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  said  Harper, 
bluntly. 

The  stranger  came  nearer  and,  bending 
toward  them,  said  in  a  whisper:  "  I  call  my- 
self Jarette  sometimes,  but  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you,  for  old  friendship,  that  I  am  Dr. 
William  Mancher." 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        309 

The  revelation  brought  Harper  to  his  feet. 
"Mancher!"  he  cried;  and  Helberson  added: 
"It  is  true,  by  God!" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling  vaguely, 
11  it  is  true  enough,  no  doubt." 

He  hesitated  and  seemed  to  be  trying  to  re- 
call something,  then  began  humming  a 
popular  air.  He  had  apparently  forgotten 
their  presence. 

"Look  here,  Mancher,"  said  the  elder  of 
the  two,  "  tell  us  just  what  occurred  that  night 
— to  Jarette,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes,  about  Jarette,"  said  the  other. 
"  It's  odd  I  should  have  neglected  to  tell  you 
• — I  tell  it  so  often.  You  see  I  knew,  by  over- 
hearing him  talking  to  himself,  that  he  was 
pretty  badly  frightened.  So  I  couldn't  resist 
the  temptation  to  come  to  life  and  have  a  bit 
of  fun  out  of  him — I  couldn't  really.  That 
was  all  right,  though  certainly  I  did  not  think 
he  would  take  it  so  seriously;  I  did  not,  truly. 
And  afterward — well,  it  was  a  tough  job 
changing  places  with  him,  and  then — damn 
you!  you  didn't  let  me  out!" 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  ferocity  with 
which  these  last  words  were  delivered.  Both 
men  stepped  back  in  alarm. 

"We? — why — why,"      Helberson      stam- 


810    THE  COLLECTED   WORKS 

mered,  losing  his  self-possession  utterly,  "we 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Didn't  I  say  you  were  Drs.  Hell-born  and 
Sharper?"  inquired  the  man,  laughing. 

"  My  name  is  Helberson,  yes ;  and  this  gen- 
tleman is  Mr.  Harper,"  replied  the  former, 
reassured  by  the  laugh.  "  But  we  are  not 
physicians  now;  we  are — well,  hang  it,  old 
man,  we  are  gamblers." 

And  that  was  the  truth. 

"A  very  good  profession — very  good,  in- 
deed; and,  by  the  way,  I  hope  Sharper  here 
paid  over  Jarette's  money  like  an  honest 
stakeholder.  A  very  good  and  honorable  pro- 
fession," he  repeated,  thoughtfully,  moving 
carelessly  away ;  "  but  I  stick  to  the  old  one. 
I  am  High  Supreme  Medical  Officer  of  the 
Bloomingdale  Asylum;  it  is  my  duty  to  cure 
the  superintendent," 


DE  AMBROSE  BIERCE       311 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  SNAKE 

It  is  of  veritabyll  report,  and  attested  of  so  many  that 
there  be  nowe  of  wyse  and  learned  none  to  gaynsaye  it, 
that  ye  serpente  hys  eye  hath  a  magnetick  propertie  that 
whosoe  falleth  into  its  svasion  is  drawn  forwards  in 
despyte  of  his  wille,  and  perisheth  miserabyll  by  y6 
creature  hys  byte. 

STRETCHED  at  ease  upon  a  sofa,  in 
gown  and  slippers,  Harker  Brayton 
smiled  as  he  read  the  foregoing  sen- 
tence in  old  Morryster's  Marvells  of 
Science.    "The  only  marvel  in  the  matter," 
he  said  to  himself,   "is  that  the  wise  and 
learned  in  Morryster's  day  should  have  be- 
lieved such  nonsense  as  is  rejected  by  most  of 
even  the  ignorant  in  ours." 

A  train  of  reflection  followed — for  Brayton 
was  a  man  of  thought— and  he  unconsciously 
lowered  his  book  without  altering  the  direc- 
tion of  his  eyes.  As  soon  as  the  volume  had 
gone  below  the  line  of  sight,  something  in  an 
obscure  corner  of  the  room  recalled  his  atten- 
tion to  his  surroundings.  What  he  saw,  in 
the  shadow  under  his  bed,  was  two  small 


312    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

points  of  light,  apparently  about  an  inch 
apart.  They  might  have  been  reflections  of 
the  gas  jet  above  him,  in  metal  nail  heads ;  he 
gave  them  but  little  thought  and  resumed  his 
reading.  A  moment  later  something — some 
impulse  which  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to 
analyze — impelled  him  to  lower  the  book 
again  and  seek  for  what  he  saw  before.  The 
points  of  light  were  still  there.  They  seemed 
to  have  become  brighter  than  before,  shining 
with  a  greenish  lustre  that  he  had  not  at  first 
observed.  He  thought,  too,  that  they  might 
have  moved  a  trifle — were  somewhat  nearer. 
They  were  still  too  much  in  shadow,  however, 
to  reveal  their  nature  and  origin  to  an  indolent 
attention,  and  again  he  resumed  his  reading. 
Suddenly  something  in  the  text  suggested  a 
thought  that  made  him  start  and  drop  the 
book  for  the  third  time  to  the  side  of  the  sofa, 
whence,  escaping  from  his  hand,  it  fell 
sprawling  to  the  floor,  back  upward.  Bray- 
ton,  half-risen,  was  staring  intently  into  the 
obscurity  beneath  the  bed,  where  the  points  of 
light  shone  with,  it  seemed  to  him,  an  added 
fire.  His  attention  was  now  fully  aroused,  his 
gaze  eager  and  imperative.  It  disclosed,  al- 
most directly  under  the  foot-rail  of  the  bed, 
the  coils  of  a  large  serpent — the  points  of 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        313 

light  were  its  eyes!  Its  horrible  head,  thrust 
flatly  forth  from  the  innermost  coil  and  rest- 
ing upon  the  outermost,  was  directed  straight 
toward  him,  the  definition  of  the  wide,  brutal 
jaw  and  the  idiot-like  forehead  serving  to 
show  the  direction  of  its  malevolent  gaze. 
The  eyes  were  no  longer  merely  luminous 
points ;  they  looked  into  his  own  with  a  mean- 
ing, a  malign  significance. 

II 

A  snake  in  a  bedroom  of  a  modern  city 
dwelling  of  the  better  sort  is,  happily,  not  so 
common  a  phenomenon  as  to  make  explana- 
tion altogether  needless.  Harker  Brayton,  a 
bachelor  of  thirty-five,  a  scholar,  idler  and 
something  of  an  athlete,  rich,  popular  and  of 
sound  health,  had  returned  to  San  Francisco 
from  all  manner  of  remote  and  unfamiliar 
countries.  His  tastes,  always  a  trifle  luxuri- 
ous, had  taken  on  an  added  exuberance  from 
long  privation;  and  the  resources  of  even  the 
Castle  Hotel  being  inadequate  to  their  per- 
fect gratification,  he  had  gladly  accepted  the 
hospitality  of  his  friend,  Dr.  Druring,  the  dis- 
tinguished scientist.  Dr.  Druring's  house,  a 
large,  old-fashioned  one  in  what  is  now  an 
obscure  quarter  of  the  city,  had  an  outer  and 


3U    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

visible  aspect  of  proud  reserve.  It  plainly 
would  not  associate  with  the  contiguous  ele- 
ments of  its  altered  environment,  and  ap- 
peared to  have  developed  some  of  the  eccen- 
tricities which  come  of  isolation.  One  of 
these  was  a  "  wing,"  conspicuously  irrelevant 
in  point  of  architecture,  and  no  less  rebellious 
in  matter  of  purpose;  for  it  was  a  combination 
of  laboratory,  menagerie  and  museum.  It 
was  here  that  the  doctor  indulged  the  scien- 
tific side  of  his  nature  in  the  study  of  such 
forms  of  animal  life  as  engaged  his  interest 
and  comforted  his  taste — which,  it  must  be 
confessed,  ran  rather  to  the  lower  types.  For 
one  of  the  higher  nimbly  and  sweetly  to  re- 
commend itself  unto  his  gentle  senses  it  had  at 
least  to  retain  certain  rudimentary  character- 
istics allying  it  to  such  "  dragons  of  the 
prime"  as  toads  and  snakes.  His  scientific 
sympathies  were  distinctly  reptilian;  he  loved 
nature's  vulgarians  and  described  himself  as 
the  Zola  of  zoology.  His  wife  and  daughters 
not  having  the  advantage  to  share  his  enlight- 
ened curiosity  regarding  the  works  and  ways 
of  our  ill-starred  fellow-creatures,  were  with 
needless  austerity  excluded  from  what  he 
called  the  Snakery  and  doomed  to  companion- 
ship with  their  own  kind,  though  to  soften  the 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        315 

rigors  of  their  lot  he  had  permitted  them  out 
of  his  great  wealth  to  outdo  the  reptiles  in  the 
gorgeousness  of  their  surroundings  and  to 
shine  with  a  superior  splendor. 

Architecturally  and  in  point  of  "  furnish- 
ing" the  Snakery  had  a  severe  simplicity  be- 
fitting the  humble  circumstances  of  its  occu- 
pants, many  of  whom,  indeed,  could  not  safely 
have  been  intrusted  with  the  liberty  that  is 
necessary  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  luxury,  for 
they  had  the  troublesome  peculiarity  of  being 
alive.  In  their  own  apartments,  however, 
they  were  under  as  little  personal  restraint  as 
was  compatible  with  their  protection  from  the 
baneful  habit  of  swallowing  one  another;  and, 
as  Brayton  had  thoughtfully  been  apprised,  it 
was  more  than  a  tradition  that  some  of  them 
had  at  divers  times  been  found  in  parts  of  the 
premises  where  it  would  have  embarrassed 
them  to  explain  their  presence.  Despite  the 
Snakery  and  its  uncanny  associations — to 
which,  indeed,  he  gave  little  attention — Bray- 
ton  found  life  at  the  Druring  mansion  very 
much  to  his  mind. 

Ill 

Beyond  a  smart  shock  of  surprise  and  a 
shudder  of  mere  loathing  Mr.  Brayton  was 
not  greatly  affected.  His  first  thought  was  to 


316    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

ring  the  call  bell  and  bring  a  servant;  but 
although  the  bell  cord  dangled  within  easy 
reach  he  made  no  movement  toward  it;  it  had 
occurred  to  his  mind  that  the  act  might  sub- 
ject him  to  the  suspicion  of  fear,  which  he 
certainly  did  not  feel.  He  was  more  keenly 
conscious  of  the  incongruous  nature  of  the  sit- 
uation than  affected  by  its  perils ;  it  was  revolt- 
ing, but  absurd. 

The  reptile  was  of  a  species  with  which 
Brayton  was  unfamiliar.  Its  length  he  could 
only  conjecture;  the  body  at  the  largest  visible 
part  seemed  about  as  thick  as  his  forearm. 
In  what  way  was  it  dangerous,  if  in  any  way? 
Was  it  venomous?  Was  it  a  constrictor?  His 
knowledge  of  nature's  danger  signals  did  not 
enable  him  to  say;  he  had  never  deciphered 
the  code. 

If  not  dangerous  the  creature  was  at  least 
offensive.  It  was  de  trop — "matter  out  of 
place  " — an  impertinence.  The  gem  was  un- 
worthy of  the  setting.  Even  the  barbarous 
taste  of  our  time  and  country,  which  had 
loaded  the  walls  of  the  room  with  pictures, 
the  floor  with  furniture  and  the  furniture  with 
bric-a-brac,  had  not  quite  fitted  the  place  for 
this  bit  of  the  savage  life  of  the  jungle.  Be- 
sides— insupportable  thought! — the  exhala- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        317 

tions  of  its  breath  mingled  with  the  atmos- 
phere which  he  himself  was  breathing. 

These  thoughts  shaped  themselves  with 
greater  or  less  definition  in  Brayton's  mind 
and  begot  action.  The  process  is  what  we  call 
consideration  and  decision.  It  is  thus  that 
we  are  wise  and  unwise.  It  is  thus  that  the 
withered  leaf  in  an  autumn  breeze  shows 
greater  or  less  intelligence  than  its  fellows, 
falling  upon  the  land  or  upon  the  lake.  The 
secret  of  human  action  is  an  open  one :  some- 
thing contracts  our  muscles.  Does  it  matter 
if  we  give  to  the  preparatory  molecular 
changes  the  name  of  will? 

Brayton  rose  to  his  feet  and  prepared  to 
back  softly  away  from  the  snake,  without  dis- 
turbing it  if  possible,  and  through  the  door. 
Men  retire  so  from  the  presence  of  the  great, 
for  greatness  is  power  and  power  is  a  menace. 
He  knew  that  he  could  walk  backward  with- 
out error.  Should  the  monster  follow,  the 
taste  which  had  plastered  the  walls  with 
paintings  had  consistently  supplied  a  rack  of 
murderous  Oriental  weapons  from  which  he 
could  snatch  one  to  suit  the  occasion.  In  the 
mean  time  the  snake's  eyes  burned  with  a  more 
pitiless  malevolence  than  before. 

Brayton  lifted  his  right  foot  free  of  the 


318    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

floor  to  step  backward.  That  moment  he  felt 
a  strong  aversion  to  doing  so. 

"I  am  accounted  brave,"  he  thought;  "is 
bravery,  then,  no  more  than  pride?  Because 
there  are  none  to  witness  the  shame  shall  I 
retreat?" 

He  was  steadying  himself  with  his  right 
hand  upon  the  back  of  a  chair,  his  foot  sus- 
pended. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said  aloud;  "I  am  not  so 
great  a  coward  as  to  fear  to  seem  to  myself 
afraid." 

He  lifted  the  foot  a  little  higher  by  slightly 
bending  the  knee  and  thrust  it  sharply  to  the 
floor — an  inch  in  front  of  the  other!  He  could 
not  think  how  that  occurred.  A  trial  with  the 
left  foot  had  the  same  result;  it  was  again  in 
advance  of  the  right.  The  hand  upon  the 
chair  back  was  grasping  it;  the  arm  was 
straight,  reaching  somewhat  backward.  One 
might  have  said  that  he  was  reluctant  to  lose 
his  hold.  The  snake's  malignant  head  was 
still  thrust  forth  from  the  inner  coil  as  before, 
the  neck  level.  It  had  not  moved,  but  its  eyes 
were  now  electric  sparks,  radiating  an  infinity 
of  luminous  needles. 

The  man  had  an  ashy  pallor.  Again  he  took 
a  step  forward,  and  another,  partly  dragging 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        319 

the  chair,  which  when  finally  released  fell 
upon  the  floor  with  a  crash.  The  man 
groaned;  the  snake  made  neither  sound  nor 
motion,  but  its  eyes  were  two  dazzling  suns. 
The  reptile  itself  was  wholly  concealed  by 
them.  They  gave  off  enlarging  rings  of  rich 
and  vivid  colors,  which  at  their  greatest  ex- 
pansion successively  vanished  like  soap-bub- 
bles; they  seemed  to  approach  his  very  face, 
and  anon  were  an  immeasurable  distance 
away.  He  heard,  somewhere,  the  continuous 
throbbing  of  a  great  drum,  with  desultory 
bursts  of  far  music,  inconceivably  sweet,  like 
the  tones  of  an  aeolian  harp.  He  knew  it  for 
the  sunrise  melody  of  Memnon's  statue,  and 
thought  he  stood  in  the  Nileside  reeds  hearing 
with  exalted  sense  that  immortal  anthem 
through  the  silence  of  the  centuries. 

The  music  ceased;  rather,  it  became  by 
insensible  degrees  the  distant  roll  of  a  retreat- 
ing thunder-storm.  A  landscape,  glittering 
with  sun  and  rain,  stretched  before  him, 
arched  with  a  vivid  rainbow  framing  in  its 
giant  curve  a  hundred  visible  cities.  In  the 
middle  distance  a  vast  serpent,  wearing  a 
crown,  reared  its  head  out  of  its  voluminous 
convolutions  and  looked  at  him  with  his  dead 
mother's  eyes.  Suddenly  this  enchanting  land- 


320    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

scape  seemed  to  rise  swiftly  upward  like  the 
drop  scene  at  a  theatre,  and  vanished  in  a 
blank.  Something  struck  him  a  hard  blow 
upon  the  face  and  breast.  He  had  fallen  to 
the  floor;  the  blood  ran  from  his  broken  nose 
and  his  bruised  lips.  For  a  time  he  was  dazed 
and  stunned,  and  lay  with  closed  eyes,  his  face 
against  the  floor.  In  a  few  moments  he  had 
recovered,  and  then  knew  that  this  fall,  by 
withdrawing  his  eyes,  had  broken  the  spell 
that  held  him.  He  felt  that  now,  by  keeping 
his  gaze  averted,  he  would  be  able  to  retreat. 
But  the  thought  of  the  serpent  within  a  few 
feet  of  his  head,  yet  unseen — perhaps  in  the 
very  act  of  springing  upon  him  and  throwing 
its  coils  about  his  throat — was  too  horrible! 
He  lifted  his  head,  stared  again  into  those 
baleful  eyes  and  was  again  in  bondage. 

The  snake  had  not  moved  and  appeared 
somewhat  to  have  lost  its  power  upon  the 
imagination;  the  gorgeous  illusions  of  a  few 
moments  before  were  not  repeated.  Beneath 
that  flat  and  brainless  brow  its  black*  beady 
eyes  simply  glittered  as  at  first  with  an  ex- 
pression unspeakably  malignant.  It  was  as  if 
the  creature,  assured  of  its  triumph,  had  de- 
termined to  practise  no  more  alluring  wiles. 

Now  ensued  a  fearful  scene.     The  man, 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        321 

prone  upon  the  floor,  within  a  yard  of  his 
enemy,  raised  the  upper  part  of  his  body  upon 
his  elbows,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  legs 
extended  to  their  full  length.  His  face  was 
white  between  its  stains  of  blood;  his  eyes 
were  strained  open  to  their  uttermost  expan- 
sion. There  was  froth  upon  his  lips;  it 
dropped  off  in  flakes.  Strong  convulsions  ran 
through  his  body,  making  almost  serpentile 
undulations.  He  bent  himself  at  the  waist, 
shifting  his  legs  from  side  to  side.  And  every 
movement  left  him  a  little  nearer  to  the  snake. 
He  thrust  his  hands  forward  to  brace  him- 
self back,  yet  constantly  advanced  upon  his 
elbows. 

IV 

Dr.  Druring  and  his  wife  sat  in  the  library. 
The  scientist  was  in  rare  good  humor. 

"  I  have  just  obtained  by  exchange  with 
another  collector,"  he  said,  "a  splendid 
specimen  of  the  ophiophagus" 

"And  what  may  that  be?"  the  lady  in- 
quired with  a  somewhat  languid  interest. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  what  profound  ignor- 
ance! My  dear,  a  man  who  ascertains  after 
marriage  that  his  wife  does  not  know  Greek 
is  entitled  to  a  divorce.  The  ophiophagus  is 
a  snake  that  eats  other  snakes." 


822    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"I  hope  it  will  eat  all  yours,"  she  said, 
absently  shifting  the  lamp.  "  But  how  does  it 
get  the  other  snakes?  By  charming  them,  I 
suppose." 

"  That  is  just  like  you,  dear,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, with  an  affectation  of  petulance.  "  You 
know  how  irritating  to  me  is  any  allusion  to 
that  vulgar  superstition  about  a  snake's 
power  of  fascination." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a 
mighty  cry,  which  rang  through  the  silent 
house  like  the  voice  of  a  demon  shouting  in  a 
tomb!  Again  and  yet  again  it  sounded,  with 
terrible  distinctness.  They  sprang  to  their 
feet,  the  man  confused,  the  lady  pale  and 
speechless  with  fright.  Almost  before  the 
echoes  of  the  last  cry  had  died  away  the  doctor 
was  out  of  the  room,  springing  up  the  stairs 
two  steps  at  a  time.  In  the  corridor  in  front 
of  Brayton's  chamber  he  met  some  servants 
who  had  come  from  the  upper  floor.  To- 
gether they  rushed  at  the  door  without  knock- 
ing. It  was  unfastened  and  gave  way.  Bray- 
ton  lay  upon  his  stomach  on  the  floor,  dead. 
His  head  and  arms  were  partly  concealed 
under  the  foot  rail  of  the  bed.  They  pulled 
the  body  away,  turning  it  upon  the  back.  The 
face  was  daubed  with  blood  and  froth,  the 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        323 

eyes  were  wide  open,  staring — a  dreadful 
sight! 

"  Died  in  a  fit,"  said  the  scientist,  bending 
his  knee  and  placing  his  hand  upon  the  heart. 
While  in  that  position,  he  chanced  to  look 
under  the  bed.  "Good  God!"  he  added, 
"  how  did  this  thing  get  in  here?  " 

He  reached  under  the  bed,  pulled  out  the 
snake  and  flung  it,  still  coiled,  to  the  center 
of  the  room,  whence  with  a  harsh,  shuffling 
sound  it  slid  across  the  polished  floor  till 
stopped  by  the  wall,  where  it  lay  without 
motion.  It  was  a  stuffed  snake ;  its  eyes  were 
two  shoe  buttons. 


324    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

A  HOLY  TERROR 
I 

THERE  was  an  entire  lack  of  interest 
in  the  latest  arrival  at  Hurdy- 
Gurdy.  He  was  not  even  christened 
with  the  picturesquely  descriptive 
nick-name  which  is  so  frequently  a  mining 
camp's  word  of  welcome  to  the  newcomer.  In 
almost  any  other  camp  thereabout  this  circum- 
stance would  of  itself  have  secured  him  some 
such  appellation  as  "The  White-headed  Co- 
nundrum," or  "No  Sarvey" — an  expression 
naively  supposed  to  suggest  to  quick  intellig- 
ences the  Spanish  qulen  sabe.  He  came  with- 
out provoking  a  ripple  of  concern  upon  the 
social  surface  of  Hurdy-Gurdy — a  place 
which  to  the  general  Californian  contempt  of 
men's  personal  history  superadded  a  local 
indifference  of  its  own.  The  time  was  long 
past  when  it  was  of  any  importance  who  came 
there,  or  if  anybody  came.  No  one  was  liv- 
ing at  Hurdy-Gurdy. 

Two  years  before,  the  camp  had  boasted  a 
stirring  population  of  two  or  three  thousand 
males  and  not  fewer  than  a  dozen  females. 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        325 

A  majority  of  the  former  had  done  a  few\ 
weeks'  earnest  work  in  demonstrating,  to  the 
disgust  of  the  latter,  the  singularly  mendacious  \ 
character  of  the  person  whose  ingenious  tales 
of  rich  gold  deposits  had  lured  them  thither — J 
work,  by  the  way,  in  which  there  was  as  little 
mental  satisfaction  as  pecuniary  profit;  for  a 
bullet  from   the  pistol  of  a  public-spirited 
citizen  had  put  that  imaginative  gentleman 
beyond  the  reach  of  aspersion  on  the  third 
day  of  the  camp's  existence.    Still,  his  fiction 
had  a  certain  foundation  in  fact,  and  many 
had  lingered  a  considerable  time  in  and  about 
Hurdy-Gurdy,  though  now  all  had  been  long 
gone. 

But  they  had  left  ample  evidence  of  their 
sojourn.  From  the  point  where  Injun  Creek 
falls  into  the  Rio  San  Juan  Smith,  up  along 
both  banks  of  the  former  into  the  canon 
whence  it  emerges,  extended  a  double  row  of 
forlorn  shanties  that  seemed  about  to  fall 
upon  one  another's  neck  to  bewail  their  desola- 
tion; while  about  an  equal  number  appeared 
to  have  straggled  up  the  slope  on  either  hand 
and  perched  themselves  upon  commanding 
eminences,  whence  they  craned  forward  to  get 
a  good  view  of  the  affecting  scene.  Most  of 
these  habitations  were  emaciated  as  by  famine 


326    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

to  the  condition  of  mere  skeletons,  about 
which  clung  unlovely  tatters  of  what  might 
have  been  skin,  but  was  really  canvas.  The 
little  valley  itself,  torn  and  gashed  by  pick 
and  shovel,  was  unhandsome  with  long,  bend- 
ing lines  of  decaying  flume  resting  here  and 
there  upon  the  summits  of  sharp  ridges,  and 
stilting  awkwardly  across  the  intervals  upon 
unhewn  poles.  The  whole  place  presented 
that  raw  and  forbidding  aspect  of  arrested 
development  which  is  a  new  country's  substi- 
tute for  the  solemn  grace  of  ruin  wrought  by 
time.  Wherever  there  remained  a  patch  of 
the  original  soil  a  rank  overgrowth  of  weeds 
and  brambles  had  spread  upon  the  scene,  and 
from  its  dank,  unwholesome  shades  the  visitor 
curious  in  such  matters  might  have  obtained 
numberless  souvenirs  of  the  camp's  former 
glory — fellowless  boots  mantled  with  green 
mould  and  plethoric  of  rotting  leaves;  an 
occasional  old  felt  hat;  desultory  remnants  of 
a  flannel  shirt;  sardine  boxes  inhumanly  muti- 
lated and  a  surprising  profusion  of  black  bot- 
tles distributed  with  a  truly  catholic  impar- 
tiality, everywhere. 

II 

The    man    who    had    now    rediscovered 
Hurdy-Gurdy  was  evidently  not  curious  as  to 


OP  AMBROSE  BIERCE       327 

its  archaeology.  Nor,  as  he  looked  about  him 
upon  the  dismal  evidences  of  wasted  work  and 
broken  hopes,  their  dispiriting  significance 
accentuated  by  the  ironical  pomp  of  a  cheap 
gilding  by  the  rising  sun,  did  he  supplement 
his  sigh  of  weariness  by  one  of  sensibility.  He 
simply  removed  from  the  back  of  his  tired 
burro  a  miner's  outfit  a  trifle  larger  than  the 
animal  itself,  picketed  that  creature  and  se- 
lecting a  hatchet  from  his  kit  moved  off  at 
once  across  the  dry  bed  of  Injun  Creek  to  the 
top  of  a  low,  gravelly  hill  beyond. 

Stepping  across  a  prostrate  fence  of  brush' 
and  boards  he  picked  up  one  of  the  latter, 
split  it  into  five  parts  and  sharpened  them  at 
one  end.  He  then  began  a  kind  of  search, 
occasionally  stooping  to  examine  something 
with  close  attention.  At  last  his  patient 
scrutiny  appeared  to  be  rewarded  with  suc- 
cess, for  he  suddenly  erected  his  figure  to  its 
full  height,  made  a  gesture  of  satisfaction, 
pronounced  the  word  "Scarry"  and  at  once 
strode  away  with  long,  equal  steps,  which 
he  counted.  Then  he  stopped  and  drove  one  of 
his  stakes  into  the  earth.  He  then  looked 
carefully  about  him,  measured  off  a  number 
of  paces  over  a  singularly  uneven  ground  and 
hammered  in  another.  Pacing  off  twice  the 


828    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

distance  at  a  right  angle  to  his  former  course 
he  drove  down  a  third,  and  repeating  the 
process  sank  home  the  fourth,  and  then  a  fifth. 
This  he  split  at  the  top  and  in  the  cleft  in- 
serted an  old  letter  envelope  covered  with  an 
intricate  system  of  pencil  tracks.  In  short, 
he  staked  off  a  hill  claim  in  strict  accordance 
with  the  local  mining  laws  of  Hurdy-Gurdy 
and  put  up  the  customary  notice. 

It  is  necessary  to  explain  that  one  of  the 
adjuncts  to  Hurdy-Gurdy — one  to  which  that 
metropolis  became  afterward  itself  an  adjunct 
— was  a  cemetery.  In  the  first  week  of  the 
camp's  existence  this  had  been  thoughtfully 
laid  out  by  a  committee  of  citizens.  The  day 
after  had  been  signalized  by  a  debate  between 
two  members  of  the  committee,  with  reference 
to  a  more  eligible  site,  and  on  the  third  day 
the  necropolis  was  inaugurated  by  a  double 
funeral.  As  the  camp  had  waned  the  cemet- 
ery had  waxed ;  and  long  before  the  ultimate 
inhabitant,  victorious  alike  over  the  insidious 
malaria  and  the  forthright  revolver,  had 
turned  the  tail  of  his  pack-ass  upon  Injun 
Creek  the  outlying  settlement  had  become  a 
populous  if  not  popular  suburb.  And  now, 
when  the  town  was  fallen  into  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf  of  an  unlovely  senility,  the  grave- 
yard— though  somewhat  marred  by  time  and 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        329 

circumstance,  and  not  altogether  exempt  from 
innovations  in  grammar  and  experiments  in 
orthography,  to  say  nothing  of  the  devastating 
coyote — answered  the  humble  needs  of  its 
denizens  with  reasonable  completeness.  It 
comprised  a  generous  two  acres  of  ground, 
which  with  commendable  thrift  but  needless 
care  had  been  selected  for  its  mineral  un- 
worth,  contained  two  or  three  skeleton  trees 
(one  of  which  had  a  stout  lateral  branch  from 
which  a  weather-wasted  rope  still  signific- 
antly dangled),  half  a  hundred  gravelly 
mounds,  a  score  of  rude  headboards  display- 
ing the  literary  peculiarities  above  mentioned 
and  a  struggling  colony  of  prickly  pears. 
Altogether,  God's  Location,  as  with  charac- 
teristic reverence  it  had  been  called,  could 
justly  boast  of  an  indubitably  superior  quality 
of  desolation.  It  was  in  the  most  thickly  set- 
tled part  of  this  interesting  demesne  that 
Mr.  Jefferson  Doman  staked  off  his  claim.  If 
in  the  prosecution  of  his  design  he  should 
deem  it  expedient  to  remove  any  of  the  dead 
they  would  have  the  right  to  be  suitably  re- 
interred. 

Ill 

This  Mr.  Jefferson  Doman  was  from  Eliz- 
abethtown,  New  Jersey,  where  six  years  be- 
fore he  had  left  his  heart  in  the  keeping  of 


330    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

a  golden-haired,  demure-mannered  young 
woman  named  Mary  Matthews,  as  collateral 
security  for  his  return  to  claim  her  hand. 

"  I  just  know  you'll  never  get  back  alive — 
you  never  do  succeed  in  anything,"  was  the 
remark  which  illustrated  Miss  Matthews's 
notion  of  what  constituted  success  and,  in- 
ferentially,  her  view  of  the  nature  of  encour- 
agement. She  added :  "  If  you  don't  I'll  go  to 
California  too.  I  can  put  the  coins  in  little 
bags  as  you  dig  them  out." 

This  characteristically  feminine  theory  of 
auriferous  deposits  did  not  commend  itself  to 
the  masculine  intelligence:  it  was  Mr.  Do- 
man's  belief  that  gold  was  found  in  a  liquid 
state.  He  deprecated  her  intent  with  consid- 
erable enthusiasm,  suppressed  her  sobs  with 
a  light  hand  upon  her  mouth,  laughed  in  her 
eyes  as  he  kissed  away  her  tears,  and  with 
a  cheerful  "Ta-ta"  went  to  California  to 
labor  for  her  through  the  long,  loveless  years, 
with  a  strong  heart,  an  alert  hope  and  a  stead- 
fast fidelity  that  never  for  a  moment  forgot 
what  it  was  about.  In  the  mean  time,  Miss 
Matthews  had  granted  a  monopoly  of  her 
humble  talent  for  sacking  up  coins  to  Mr.  Jo. 
Seeman,  of  New  York,  gambler,  by  whom  it 
was  better  appreciated  than  her  commanding 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        331 

genius  for  unsacking  and  bestowing  them 
upon  his  local  rivals.  Of  this  latter  aptitude, 
indeed,  he  manifested  his  disapproval  by  an 
act  which  secured  him  the  position  of  clerk 
of  the  laundry  in  the  State  prison,  and  for  her 
the  sobriquet  of  "Split-faced  Moll."  At 
about  this  time  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Doman  a 
touching  letter  of  renunciation,  inclosing  her 
photograph  to  prove  that  she  had  no  longer 
a  right  to  indulge  the  dream  of  becoming 
Mrs.  Doman,  and  recounting  so  graphically 
her  fall  from  a  horse  that  the  staid  "plug" 
upon  which  Mr.  Doman  had  ridden  into  Red 
Dog  to  get  the  letter  made  vicarious  atone- 
ment under  the  spur  all  the  way  back  to  camp. 
The  letter  failed  in  a  signal  way  to  accomplish 
its  object;  the  fidelity  which  had  before  been 
to  Mr.  Doman  a  matter  of  love  and  duty  was 
thenceforth  a  matter  of  honor  also;  and  the 
photograph,  showing  the  once  pretty  face 
sadly  disfigured  as  by  the  slash  of  a  knife,  was 
duly  instated  in  his  affections  and  its  more 
comely  predecessor  treated  with  contumelious 
neglect.  On  being  informed  of  this,  Miss 
Matthews,  it  is  only  fair  to  say,  appeared  less 
surprised  than  from  the  apparently  low  esti- 
mate of  Mr.  Doman's  generosity  which  the 

tone  of  her  former  letter  attested  one  would 

J 


332    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

naturally  have  expected  her  to  be.  Soon  after, 
however,  her  letters  grew  infrequent,  and  then 
ceased  altogether. 

But  Mr.  Doman  had  another  correspond- 
ent, Mr.  Barney  Bree,  of  Hurdy-Gurdy, 
formerly  of  Red  Dog.  This  gentleman,  al- 
though a  notable  figure  among  miners,  was 
not  a  miner.  His  knowledge  of  mining  con- 
sisted mainly  in  a  marvelous  command  of  its 
slang,  to  which  he  made  copious  contributions, 
enriching  its  vocabulary  with  a  wealth  of  un- 
common phrases  more  remarkable  for  their 
aptness  than  their  refinement,  and  which  im- 
pressed the  unlearned  "tenderfoot"  with  a 
lively  sense  of  the  profundity  of  their  invent- 
or's acquirements.  When  not  entertaining  a 
circle  of  admiring  auditors  from  San  Fran- 
cisco or  the  East  he  could  commonly  be  found 
pursuing  the  comparatively  obscure  industry 
of  sweeping  out  the  various  dance  houses  and 
purifying  the  cuspidors. 

Barney  had  apparently  but  two  passions  in 
life — love  of  Jefferson  Doman,  who  had  once 
been  of  some  service  to  him,  and  love  of 
whisky,  which  certainly  had  not.  He  had 
been  among  the  first  in  the  rush  to  Hurdy- 
Gurdy,  but  had  not  prospered,  and  had  sunk 
by  degrees  to  the  position  of  grave  digger. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        333 

This  was  not  a  vocation,  but  Barney  in  a 
desultory  way  turned  his  trembling  hand  to 
it  whenever  some  local  misunderstanding  at 
the  card  table  and  his  own  partial  recovery 
from  a  prolonged  debauch  occurred  coinci- 
dently  in  point  of  time.  One  day  Mr.  Doman 
received,  at  Red  Dog,  a  letter  with  the  simple 
postmark,  "  Hurdy,  Cal.,"  and  being  occupied 
with  another  matter,  carelessly  thrust  it  into 
a  chink  of  his  cabin  for  future  perusal.  Some 
two  years  later  it  was  accidentally  dislodged 
and  he  read  it.  It  ran  as  follows : — 

HURDY,  June  6. 

FRIEND  JEFF:  I've  hit  her  hard  in  the  boneyard. 
She's  blind  and  lousy.  I'm  on  the  diwy — that's  me,  and 
mum's  my  lay  till  you  toot.  Yours,  BARNEY. 

P.  S. — I've  clayed  her  with  Scarry. 

With  some  knowledge  of  the  general  min- 
ing camp  argot  and  of  Mr.  Bree's  private  sys- 
tem for  the  communication  of  ideas  Mr. 
Doman  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  by 
this  uncommon  epistle  that  Barney  while  per- 
forming his  duty  as  grave  digger  had  uncov- 
ered a  quartz  ledge  with  no  outcroppings ; 
that  it  was  visibly  rich  in  free  gold;  that, 
moved  by  considerations  of  friendship,  he  was 
willing  to  accept  Mr.  Doman  as  a  partner  and 
awaiting  that  gentleman's  declaration  of  his 


334,    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

will  in  the  matter  would  discreetly  keep  the 
discovery  a  secret.  From  the  postscript  it 
was  plainly  inferable  that  in  order  to  conceal 
the  treasure  he  had  buried  above  it  the  mortal 
part  of  a  person  named  Scarry. 

From  subsequent  events,  as  related  to  Mr. 
Doman  at  Red  Dog,  it  would  appear  that 
before  taking  this  precaution  Mr.  Bree  must 
have  had  the  thrift  to  remove  a  modest  com- 
petency of  the  gold;  at  any  rate,  it  was  at 
about  that  time  that  he  entered  upon  that 
memorable  series  of  potations  and  treatings 
which  is  still  one  of  the  cherished  traditions 
of  the  San  Juan  Smith  country,  and  is  spoken 
of  with  respect  as  far  away  as  Ghost  Rock  and 
Lone  Hand.  At  its  conclusion  some  former 
citizens  of  Hurdy-Gurdy,  for  whom  he  had 
performed  the  last  kindly  office  at  the  cemet- 
ery, made  room  for  him  among  them,  and  he 
rested  well. 

IV 

Having  finished  staking  off  his  claim  Mr. 
Doman  walked  back  to  the  centre  of  it  and 
stood  again  at  the  spot  where  his  search 
among  the  graves  had  expired  in  the  exclama- 
tion, "  Scarry."  He  bent  again  over  the  head- 
board that  bore  that  name  and  as  if  to  rein- 
force the  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  ran  his 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        335 

forefinger  along  the  rudely  carved  letters.  Re- 
erecting  himself  he  appended  orally  to  the 
simple  inscription  the  shockingly  forthright 
epitaph,  "  She  was  a  holy  terror  1" 

Had  Mr.  Doman  been  required  to  make 
these  words  good  with  proof — as,  considering 
their  somewhat  censorious  character,  he  doubt- 
less should  have  been — he  would  have  found 
himself  embarrassed  by  the  absence  of  reput- 
able witnesses,  and  hearsay  evidence  would 
have  been  the  best  he  could  command.  At  the 
time  when  Scarry  had  been  prevalent  in  the 
mining  camps  thereabout — when,  as  the  editor 
of  the  Hurdy  Herald  would  have  phrased  it, 
she  was  "  in  the  plenitude  of  her  power " — 
Mr.  Doman's  fortunes  had  been  at  a  low  ebb, 
and  he  had  led  the  vagrantly  laborious  life  of 
a  prospector.  His  time  had  been  mostly 
spent  in  the  mountains,  now  with  one  com- 
panion, now  with  another.  It  was  from  the 
admiring  recitals  of  these  casual  partners, 
fresh  from  the  various  camps,  that  his  judg- 
ment of  Scarry  had  been  made  up;  he  him- 
self had  never  had  the  doubtful  advantage  of 
her  acquaintance  and  the  precarious  distinc- 
tion of  her  favor.  And  when,  finally,  on  the 
termination  of  her  perverse  career  at  Hurdy- 
Gurdy  he  had  read  in  a  chance  copy  of  the 


836    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Herald  her  column-long  obituary  (written  by 
the  local  humorist  of  that  lively  sheet  in  the 
highest  style  of  his  art)  Doman  had  paid  to 
her  memory  and  to  her  historiographer's 
genius  the  tribute  of  a  smile  and  chivalrously 
forgotten  her.  Standing  now  at  the  grave-side 
of  this  mountain  Messalina  he  recalled  the 
leading  events  of  her  turbulent  career,  as  he 
had  heard  them  celebrated  at  his  several  camp- 
fires,  and  perhaps  with  an  unconscious  attempt 
at  self-justification  repeated  that  she  was  a 
holy  terror,  and  sank  his  pick  into  her  grave 
up  to  the  handle.  At  that  moment  a  raven, 
which  had  silently  settled  upon  a  branch  of 
the  blasted  tree  above  his  head,  solemnly 
snapped  its  beak  and  uttered  its  mind  about 
the  matter  with  an  approving  croak. 

Pursuing  his  discovery  of  free  gold  with 
great  zeal,  which  he  probably  credited  to  his 
conscience  as  a  grave  digger,  Mr.  Barney 
Bree  had  made  an  unusually  deep  sepulcher, 
and  it  was  near  sunset  before  Mr.  Doman, 
laboring  with  the  leisurely  deliberation  of  one 
who  has  "  a  dead  sure  thing  "  and  no  fear  of 
an  adverse  claimant's  enforcement  of  a  prior 
right,  reached  the  coffin  and  uncovered  it. 
When  he  had  done  so  he  was  confronted  by  a 
difficulty  for  which  he  had  made  no  pro- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        337 

vision ;  the  coffin — a  mere  flat  shell  of  not  very 
well-preserved  redwood  boards,  apparently — 
had  no  handles,  and  it  rilled  the  entire  bottom 
of  the  excavation.  The  best  he  could  do  with- 
out violating  the  decent  sanctities  of  the  situa- 
tion was  to  make  the  excavation  sufficiently 
longer  to  enable  him  to  stand  at  the  head  of 
the  casket  and  getting  his  powerful  hands  un- 
derneath erect  it  upon  its  narrower  end ;  and 
this  he  proceeded  to  do.  The  approach  of 
night  quickened  his  efforts.  He  had  no 
thought  of  abandoning  his  task  at  this  stage  to 
resume  it  on  the  morrow  under  more  advant- 
ageous conditions.  The  feverish  stimulation 
of  cupidity  and  the  fascination  of  terror  held 
him  to  his  dismal  work  with  an  iron  authority. 
He  no  longer  idled,  but  wrought  with  a  terri- 
ble zeal.  His  head  uncovered,  his  outer  gar- 
ments discarded,  his  shirt  opened  at  the  neck 
and  thrown  back  from  his  breast,  down  which 
ran  sinuous  rills  of  perspiration,  this  hardy 
and  impenitent  gold-getter  and  grave-robber 
toiled  with  a  giant  energy  that  almost  digni- 
fied the  character  of  his  horrible  purpose;  and 
when  the  sun  fringes  had  burned  themselves 
out  along  the  crest  line  of  the  western  hills, 
and  the  full  moon  had  climbed  out  of  the 
shadows  that  lay  along  the  purple  plain,  he 


338    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

had  erected  the  coffin  upon  its  foot,  where  it 
stood  propped  against  the  end  of  the  open 
grave.  Then,  standing  up  to  his  neck  in  the 
earth  at  the  opposite  extreme  of  the  excava- 
tion, as  he  looked  at  the  coffin  upon  which  the 
moonlight  now  fell  with  a  full  illumination 
he  was  thrilled  with  a  sudden  terror  to  observe 
upon  it  the  startling  apparition  of  a  dark 
human  head — the  shadow  of  his  own.  For  a 
moment  this  simple  and  natural  circumstance 
unnerved  him.  The  noise  of  his  labored 
breathing  frightened  him,  and  he  tried  to  still 
it,  but  his  bursting  lungs  would  not  be  denied. 
Then,  laughing  half-audibly  and  wholly  with- 
out spirit,  he  began  making  movements  of  his 
head  from  side  to  side,  in  order  to  compel  the 
apparition  to  repeat  them.  He  found  a  com- 
forting reassurance  in  asserting  his  command 
over  his  own  shadow.  He  was  temporizing, 
making,  with  unconscious  prudence,  a  dilat- 
ory opposition  to  an  impending  catastrophe. 
He  felt  that  invisible  forces  of  evil  were  clos- 
ing in  upon  him,  and  he  parleyed  for  time 
with  the  Inevitable. 

He  now  observed  in  succession  several  un- 
usual circumstances.  The  surface  of  the  coffin 
upon  which  his  eyes  were  fastened  was  not 
flat;  it  presented  two  distinct  ridges,  one 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       339 

longitudinal  and  the  other  transverse.  Where 
these  intersected  at  the  widest  part  there  was 
a  corroded  metallic  plate  that  reflected  the 
moonlight  with  a  dismal  lustre.  Along  the 
outer  edges  of  the  coffin,  at  long  intervals, 
were  rust-eaten  heads  of  nails.  This  frail 
product  of  the  carpenter's  art  had  been  put 
into  the  grave  the  wrong  side  up ! 

Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  humors  of  the 
camp — a  practical  manifestation  of  the  face- 
tious spirit  that  had  found  literary  expression 
in  the  topsy-turvy  obituary  notice  from  the 
pen  of  Hurdy-Gurdy's  great  humorist.  Per- 
haps it  had  some  occult  personal  signification 
impenetrable  to  understandings  uninstructed 
in  local  traditions.  A  more  charitable  hypo- 
thesis is  that  it  was  owing  to  a  misadventure 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Barney  Bree,  who,  making 
the  interment  unassisted  (either  by  choice  for 
the  conservation  of  his  golden  secret,  or 
through  public  apathy),  had  committed  a 
blunder  which  he  was  afterward  unable  or  un- 
concerned to  rectify.  However  it  had  come 
about,  poor  Scarry  had  indubitably  been  put 
into  the  earth  face  downward. 

When  terror  and  absurdity  make  alliance, 
the  effect  is  frightful.  This  strong-hearted 
and  daring  man,  this  hardy  night  worker 


340    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

among  the  dead,  this  defiant  antagonist  of 
darkness  and  desolation,  succumbed  to  a 
ridiculous  surprise.  He  was  smitten  with  a 
thrilling  chill — shivered,  and  shook  his  mass- 
ive shoulders  as  if  to  throw  off  an  icy  hand. 
He  no  longer  breathed,  and  the  blood  in  his 
veins,  unable  to  abate  its  impetus,  surged  hotly 
beneath  his  cold  skin.  Unleavened  with 
oxygen,  it  mounted  to  his  head  and  congested 
his  brain.  His  physical  functions  had  gone 
over  to  the  enemy;  his  very  heart  was  arrayed 
against  him.  He  did  not  move ;  he  could  not 
have  cried  out.  He  needed  but  a  coffin  to  be 
dead — as  dead  as  the  death  that  confronted 
him  with  only  the  length  of  an  open  grave  and 
the  thickness  of  a  rotting  plank  between. 

Then,  one  by  one,  his  senses  returned;  the 
tide  of  terror  that  had  overwhelmed  his  facul- 
ties began  to  recede.  But  with  the  return  of 
his  senses  he  became  singularly  unconscious 
of  the  object  of  his  fear.  He  saw  the  moon- 
light gilding  the  coffin,  but  no  longer  the  coffin 
that  it  gilded.  Raising  his  eyes  and  turning  his 
head,  he  noted,  curiously  and  with  surprise, 
the  black  branches  of  the  dead  tree,  and  tried 
to  estimate  the  length  of  the  weather-worn 
rope  that  dangled  from  its  ghostly  hand.  The 
monotonous  barking  of  distant  coyotes  affected 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       341 

him  as  something  he  had  heard  years  ago  in  a 
dream.  An  owl  flapped  awkwardly  above 
him  on  noiseless  wings,  and  he  tried  to  fore- 
cast the  direction  of  its  flight  when  it  should 
encounter  the  cliff  that  reared  its  illuminated 
front  a  mile  away.  His  hearing  took  account 
of  a  gopher's  stealthy  tread  in  the  shadow  of 
the  cactus.  He  was  intensely  observant;  his 
senses  were  all  alert;  but  he  saw  not  the  coffin. 
As  one  can  gaze  at  the  sun  until  it  looks  black 
and  then  vanishes,  so  his  mind,  having  ex- 
hausted its  capacities  of  dread,  was  no  longer 
conscious  of  the  separate  existence  of  anything 
dreadful.  The  Assassin  was  cloaking  the 
sword. 

It  was  during  this  lull  in  the  battle  that 
he  became  sensible  of  a  faint,  sickening  odor. 
At  first  he  thought  it  was  that  of  a  rattle- 
snake, and  involuntarily  tried  to  look  about  his 
feet.  They  were  nearly  invisible  in  the  gloom 
of  the  grave.  A  hoarse,  gurgling  sound,  like 
the  death-rattle  in  a  human  throat,  seemed  to 
come  out  of  the  sky,  and  a  moment  later  a 
great,  black,  angular  shadow,  like  the  same 
sound  made  visible,  dropped  curving  from  the 
topmost  branch  of  the  spectral  tree,  fluttered 
for  an  instant  before  his  face  and  sailed 
fiercely  away  into  the  mist  along  the  creek. 


842    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

It  was  the  raven.  The  incident  recalled  him 
to  a  sense  of  the  situation,  and  again  his  eyes 
sought  the  upright  coffin,  now  illuminated  by 
the  moon  for  half  its  length.  He  saw  the 
gleam  of  the  metallic  plate  and  tried  without 
moving  to  decipher  the  inscription.  Then  he 
fell  to  speculating  upon  what  was  behind  it. 
His  creative  imagination  presented  him  a 
vivid  picture.  The  planks  no  longer  seemed 
an  obstacle  to  his  vision  and  he  saw  the  livid 
corpse  of  the  dead  woman,  standing  in  grave- 
clothes,  and  staring  vacantly  at  him,  with  lid- 
less,  shrunken  eyes.  The  lower  jaw  was 
fallen,  the  upper  lip  drawn  away  from  the 
uncovered  teeth.  He  could  make  out  a  mot- 
tled pattern  on  the  hollow  cheeks — the  macu- 
lations  of  decay.  By  some  mysterious  process 
his  mind  reverted  for  the  first  time  that  day 
to  the  photograph  of  Mary  Matthews.  He 
contrasted  its  blonde  beauty  with  the  forbidd- 
ing aspect  of  this  dead  face — the  most  be- 
loved object  that  he  knew  with  the  most  hid- 
eous that  he  could  conceive. 

The  Assassin  now  advanced  and  displaying 
the  blade  laid  it  against  the  victim's  throat. 
That  is  to  say,  the  man  became  at  first  dimly, 
then  definitely,  aware  of  an  impressive  coin- 
cidence— a  relation — a  parallel  between  the 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        343 

face  on  the  card  and  the  name  on  the  head- 
board. The  one  was  disfigured,  the  other  de- 
scribed a  disfiguration.  The  thought  took 
hold  of  him  and  shook  him.  It  transformed 
the  face  that  his  imagination  had  created  be- 
hind the  coffin  lid;  the  contrast  became  a  re- 
semblance; the  resemblance  grew  to  identity. 
Remembering  the  many  descriptions  of 
Scarry's  personal  appearance  that  he  had 
heard  from  the  gossips  of  his  camp-fire  he 
tried  with  imperfect  success  to  recall  the  exact 
nature  of  the  disfiguration  that  had  given  the 
woman  her  ugly  name ;  and  what  was  lacking 
in  his  memory  fancy  supplied,  stamping  it 
with  the  validity  of  conviction.  In  the  mad- 
dening attempt  to  recall  such  scraps  of  the 
woman's  history  as  he  had  heard,  the  muscles 
of  his  arms  and  hands  were  strained  to  a  pain- 
ful tension,  as  by  an  effort  to  lift  a  great 
weight.  His  body  writhed  and  twisted  with 
the  exertion.  The  tendons  of  his  neck  stood 
out  as  tense  as  whip-cords,  and  his  breath 
came  in  short,  sharp  gasps.  The  catastrophe 
could  not  be  much  longer  delayed,  or  the 
agony  of  anticipation  would  leave  nothing  to 
be  done  by  the  coup  de  grace  of  verification. 
The  scarred  face  behind  the  lid  would  slay 
him  through  the  wood. 


344    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

A  movement  of  the  coffin  diverted  his 
thought.  It  came  forward  to  within  a  foot  of 
his  face,  growing  visibly  larger  as  it  ap- 
proached. The  rusted  metallic  plate,  with  an 
inscription  illegible  in  the  moonlight,  looked 
him  steadily  in  the  eye.  Determined  not  to 
shrink,  he  tried  to  brace  his  shoulders  more 
firmly  against  the  end  of  the  excavation,  and 
nearly  fell  backward  in  the  attempt.  There 
was  nothing  to  support  him;  he  had  uncon- 
sciously moved  upon  his  enemy,  clutching  the 
heavy  knife  that  he  had  drawn  from  his  belt. 
The  coffin  had  not  advanced  and  he  smiled  to 
think  it  could  not  retreat.  Lifting  his  knife  he 
struck  the  heavy  hilt  against  the  metal  plate 
with  all  his  power.  There  was  a  sharp,  ring- 
ing percussion,  and  with  a  dull  clatter  the 
whole  decayed  coffin  lid  broke  in  pieces  and 
came  away,  falling  about  his  feet.  The  quick 
and  the  dead  were  face  to  face — the  frenzied, 
shrieking  man — the  woman  standing  tranquil 
in  her  silences.  She  was  a  holy  terror! 

V 

Some  months  later  a  party  of  men  and 
women  belonging  to  the  highest  social  circles 
of  San  Francisco  passed  through  Hurdy- 
Gurdy  on  their  way  to  the  Yosemite  Valley 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        345 

by  a  new  trail.  They  halted  for  dinner  and 
during  its  preparation  explored  the  desolate 
camp.  One  of  the  party  had  been  at  Hurdy- 
Gurdy  in  the  days  of  its  glory.  He  had,  in- 
deed, been  one  of  its  prominent  citizens;  and 
it  used  to  be  said  that  more  money  passed  over 
his  faro  table  in  any  one  night  than  over  those 
of  all  his  competitors  in  a  week;  but  being 
now  a  millionaire  engaged  in  greater  enter- 
prises, he  did  not  deem  these  early  successes  of 
sufficient  importance  to  merit  the  distinction 
of  remark.  His  invalid  wife,  a  lady  famous  in 
San  Francisco  for  the  costly  nature  of  her 
entertainments  and  her  exacting  rigor  with 
regard  to  the  social  position  and  "  anteced- 
ents" of  those  who  attended  them,  accompanied 
the  expedition.  During  a  stroll  among  the 
shanties  of  the  abandoned  camp  Mr.  Porfer 
directed  the  attention  of  his  wife  and  friends 
to  a  dead  tree  on  a  low  hill  beyond  Injun 
Creek. 

"As  I  told  you,"  he  said,  "I  passed 
through  this  camp  in  1852,  and  was  told  that 
no  fewer  than  five  men  had  been  hanged  here 
by  vigilantes  at  different  times,  and  all  on  that 
tree.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  a  rope  is  dangling 
from  it  yet.  Let  us  go  over  and  see  the  place.* 

Mr.  Porfer  did  not  add  that  the  rope  in 


346    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

question  was  perhaps  the  very  one  from  whose 
fatal  embrace  his  own  neck  had  once  had  an 
escape  so  narrow  that  an  hour's  delay  in  tak- 
ing himself  out  of  that  region  would  have 
spanned  it. 

Proceeding  leisurely  down  the  creek  to  a 
convenient  crossing,  the  party  came  upon  the 
cleanly  picked  skeleton  of  an  animal  which 
Mr.  Porfer  after  due  examination  pronounced 
to  be  that  of  an  ass.  The  distinguishing  ears 
were  gone,  but  much  of  the  inedible  head  had 
been  spared  by  the  beasts  and  birds,  and  the 
stout  bridle  of  horsehair  was  intact,  as  was  the 
riata,  of  similar  material,  connecting  it  with 
a  picket  pin  still  firmly  sunken  in  the  earth. 
The  wooden  and  metallic  elements  of  a 
miner's  kit  lay  near  by.  The  customary  re- 
marks were  made,  cynical  on  the  part  of  the 
men,  sentimental  and  refined  by  the  lady.  A 
little  later  they  stood  by  the  tree  in  the  cemet- 
ery and  Mr.  Porfer  sufficiently  unbent  from 
his  dignity  to  place  himself  beneath  the  rotten 
rope  and  confidently  lay  a  coil  of  it  about  his 
neck,  somewhat,  it  appeared,  to  his  own  satis- 
faction, but  greatly  to  the  horror  of  his  wife, 
to  whose  sensibilities  the  performance  gave  a 
smart  shock. 

An   exclamation    from   one   of   the  party 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       347 

gathered  them  all  about  an  open  grave,  at 
the  bottom  of  which  they  saw  a  confused 
mass  of  human  bones  and  the  broken  rem- 
nants of  a  coffin.  Coyotes  and  buzzards  had 
performed  the  last  sad  rites  for  pretty  much 
all  else.  Two  skulls  were  visible  and  in  order 
to  investigate  this  somewhat  unusual  redund- 
ancy one  of  the  younger  men  had  the  hardi- 
hood to  spring  into  the  grave  and  hand  them 
up  to  another  before  Mrs.  Porfer  could  indic- 
ate her  marked  disapproval  of  so  shocking  an 
act,  which,  nevertheless,  she  did  with  con- 
siderable feeling  and  in  very  choice  words. 
Pursuing  his  search  among  the  dismal  debris 
at  the  bottom  of  the  grave  the  young  man  next 
handed  up  a  rusted  coffin  plate,  with  a  rudely 
cut  inscription,  which  with  difficulty  Mr. 
Porfer  deciphered  and  read  aloud  with  an 
earnest  and  not  altogether  unsuccessful  at- 
tempt at  the  dramatic  effect  which  he  deemed 
befitting  to  the  occasion  and  his  rhetorical 

abilities : 

MANUELITA  MURPHY. 
Born  at  the  Mission  San  Pedro — Died  in 
Hurdy-Gurdy, 

Aged  47. 
Hell's  full  of  such. 

In  deference  to  the  piety  of  the  reader  and 


348    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  nerves  of  Mrs.  Porfer's  fastidious  sister- 
hood of  both  sexes  let  us  not  touch  upon  the 
painful  impression  produced  by  this  uncom- 
mon inscription,  further  than  to  say  that  the 
elocutionary  powers  of  Mr.  Porfer  had  never 
before  met  with  so  spontaneous  and  over- 
whelming recognition. 

The  next  morsel  that  rewarded  the  ghoul 
in  the  grave  was  a  long  tangle  of  black  hair 
defiled  with  clay:  but  this  was  such  an  anti- 
climax that  it  received  little  attention.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  short  exclamation  and  a  gesture 
of  excitement,  the  young  man  unearthed  a 
fragment  of  grayish  rock,  and  after  a  hurried 
inspection  handed  it  up  to  Mr.  Porfer.  As 
the  sunlight  fell  upon  it  it  glittered  with  a 
yellow  luster — it  was  thickly  studded  with 
gleaming  points.  Mr.  Porfer  snatched  it,  bent 
his  head  over  it  a  moment  and  threw  it  lightly 
away  with  the  simple  remark: 

"  Iron  pyrites — fool's  gold." 

The  young  man  in  the  discovery  shaft  was 
a  trifle  disconcerted,  apparently. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Porfer,  unable  longer  to 
endure  the  disagreeable  business,  had  walked 
back  to  the  tree  and  seated  herself  at  its  root. 
While  rearranging  a  tress  of  golden  hair 
which  had  slipped  from  its  confinement  she 


OF,  AMBROSE  BIERCE        349 

was  attracted  by  what  appeared  to  be  and 
really  was  the  fragment  of  an  old  coat.  Look- 
ing about  to  assure  herself  that  so  unladylike 
an  act  was  not  observed,  she  thrust  her  jeweled 
hand  into  the  exposed  breast  pocket  and  drew 
out  a  mouldy  pocket-book.  Its  contents  were 
as  follows: 

One  bundle  of  letters,  postmarked  "  Eliza- 
bethtown,  New  Jersey." 

One  circle  of  blonde  hair  tied  with  a  ribbon. 

One  photograph  of  a  beautiful  girl. 

One  ditto  of  same,  singularly  disfigured. 

One  name  on  back  of  photograph — "Jeffer- 
son Doman." 

A  few  moments  later  a  group  of  anxious 
gentlemen  surrounded  Mrs.  Porfer  as  she  sat 
motionless  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  her  head 
dropped  forward,  her  fingers  clutching  a 
crushed  photograph.  Her  husband  raised  her 
head,  exposing  a  face  ghastly  white,  except 
the  long,  deforming  cicatrice,  familiar  to  all 
her  friends,  which  no  art  could  ever  hide,  and 
which  now  traversed  the  pallor  of  her  coun- 
tenance like  a  visible  curse. 

Mary  Matthews  Porfer  had  the  bad  luck  to 
be  dead. 


350    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 
THE  SUITABLE  SURROUNDINGS 

THE  NIGHT 

ONE  midsummer  night  a  farmer's  boy 
living  about  ten  miles  from  the  city 
of    Cincinnati    was    following    a 
bridle  path  through  a  dense  and 
dark   forest.     He    had    lost   himself   while 
searching  for  some  missing  cows,  and  near 
midnight  was  a  long  way  from  home,  in  a  part 
of  the  country  with  which  he  was  unfamiliar. 
But  he  was  a  stout-hearted  lad,  and  knowing 
his    general    direction    from    his   home,    he 
plunged  into  the   forest  without  hesitation, 
guided  by  the  stars.    Coming  into  the  bridle 
path,  and  observing  that  it  ran  in  the  right 
direction,  he  followed  it. 

The  night  was  clear,  but  in  the  woods  it 
was  exceedingly  dark.  It  was  more  by  the 
sense  of  touch  than  by  that  of  sight  that  the 
lad  kept  the  path.  He  could  not,  indeed,  very 
easily  go  astray;  the  undergrowth  on  both 
sides  was  so  thick  as  to  be  almost  impenetrable. 
He  had  gone  into  the  forest  a  mile  or  more 
when  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  feeble  gleam 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       351 

of  light  shining  through  .the  foliage  skirting 
the  path  on  his  left.  The  sight  of  it  startled 
him  and  set  his  heart  beating  audibly. 

"The  old  Breede  house  is  somewhere  about 
here,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  This  must  be  the 
other  end  of  the  path  which  we  reach  it  by 
from  our  side.  Ugh!  what  should  a  light  be 
doing  there?" 

Nevertheless,  he  pushed  on.  A  moment 
later  he  had  emerged  from  the  forest  into  a 
small,  open  space,  mostly  upgrown  to  bram- 
bles. There  were  remnants  of  a  rotting  fence. 
A  few  yards  from  the  trail,  in  the  middle  of 
the  "  clearing,"  was  the  house  from  which  the 
light  came,  through  an  unglazed  window. 
The  window  had  once  contained  glass,  but 
that  and  its  supporting  frame  had  long  ago 
yielded  to  missiles  flung  by  hands  of  venture- 
some boys  to  attest  alike  their  courage  and 
their  hostility  to  the  supernatural;  for  the 
Breede  house  bore  the  evil  reputation  of  being 
haunted.  Possibly  it  was  not,  but  even  the 
hardiest  sceptic  could  not  deny  that  it  was 
deserted — which  in  rural  regions  is  much  the 
same  thing. 

Looking  at  the  mysterious  dim  light  shin- 
ing from  the  ruined  window  the  boy  re- 
membered with  apprehension  that  his  own 


352    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

hand  had  assisted  at  the  destruction.  His 
penitence  was  of  course  poignant  in  propor- 
tion to  its  tardiness  and  inefficacy.  He  half 
expected  to  be  set  upon  by  all  the  unworldly 
and  bodiless  malevolences  whom  he  had  out- 
raged by  assisting  to  break  alike  their  win- 
dows and  their  peace.  Yet  this  stubborn  lad, 
shaking  in  every  limb,  would  not  retreat.  The 
blood  in  his  veins  was  strong  and  rich  with 
the  iron  of  the  frontiersman.  He  was  but 
two  removes  from  the  generation  that  had 
subdued  the  Indian.  He  started  to  pass  the 
house. 

As  he  was  going  by  he  looked  in  at  the 
blank  window  space  and  saw  a  strange  and 
terrifying  sight, — the  figure  of  a  man  seated 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  at  a  table  upon 
which  lay  some  loose  sheets  of  paper.  The 
elbows  rested  on  the  table,  the  hands  support- 
ing the  head,  which  was  uncovered.  On  each 
side  the  fingers  were  pushed  into  the  hair. 
The  face  showed  dead-yellow  in  the  light  of 
a  single  candle  a  little  to  one  side.  The  flame 
illuminated  that  side  of  the  face,  the  other  was 
in  deep  shadow.  The  man's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  blank  window  space  with  a  stare  in 
which  an  older  and  cooler  observer  might 
have  discerned  something  of  apprehension, 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        353 

but  which  seemed  to  the  lad  altogether  soul- 
less.   He  believed  the  man  to  be  dead. 

The  situation  was  horrible,  but  not  with 
out  its  fascination.  The  boy  stopped  to  note 
it  all.  He  was  weak,  faint  and  trembling;  he 
could  feel  the  blood  forsaking  his  face. 
Nevertheless,  he  set  his  teeth  and  resolutely 
advanced  to  the  house.  He  had  no  conscious 
intention — it  was  the  mere  courage  of  terror. 
He  thrust  his  white  face  forward  into  the 
illuminated  opening.  At  that  instant  a 
strange,  harsh  cry,  a  shriek,  broke  upon  the 
silence  of  the  night — the  note  of  a  screech-owl. 
The  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  overturning  the 
table  and  extinguishing  the  candle.  The  boy 
took  to  his  heels. 

THE  DAY  BEFORE 

"  Good-morning,  Colston.  I  am  in  luck,  it 
seems.  You  have  often  said  that  my  com- 
mendation of  your  literary  work  was  mere 
civility,  and  here  you  find  me  absorbed — act- 
ually merged — in  your  latest  story  in  the 
Messenger.  Nothing  less  shocking  than  your 
touch  upon  my  shoulder  would  have  roused 
me  to  consciousness." 

"The  proof  is  stronger  than  you  seem  to 
know,"  replied  the  man  addressed :  "  so  keen 


354    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

is  your  eagerness  to  read  my  story  that  you  are 
willing  to  renounce  selfish  considerations  and 
forego  all  the  pleasure  that  you  could  get 
from  it." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  the  other, 
folding  the  newspaper  that  he  held  and  putt- 
ing it  into  his  pocket.  "You  writers  are  a 
queer  lot,  anyhow.  Come,  tell  me  what  I  have 
done  or  omitted  in  this  matter.  In  what  way 
does  the  pleasure  that  I  get,  or  might  get,  from 
your  work  depend  on  me?" 

"  In  many  ways.  Let  me  ask  you  how  you 
would  enjoy  your  breakfast  if  you  took  it  in  this 
street  car.  Suppose  the  phonograph  so  per- 
fected as  to  be  able  to  give  you  an  entire  opera, 
— singing,  orchestration,  and  all ;  do  you  think 
you  would  get  much  pleasure  out  of  it  if  you 
turned  it  on  at  your  office  during  business 
hours?  Do  you  really  care  for  a  serenade  by 
Schubert  when  you  hear  it  fiddled  by  an  un- 
timely Italian  on  a  morning  ferryboat?  Are 
you  always  cocked  and  primed  for  enjoy- 
ment? Do  you  keep  every  mood  on  tap,  ready 
to  any  demand?  Let  me  remind  you,  sir,  that 
the  story  which  you  have  done  me  the  honor 
to  begin  as  a  means  of  becoming  oblivious  to 
the  discomfort  of  this  car  is  a  ghost  story  I " 

"Well?" 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        355 

"Well!  Has  the  reader  no  duties  corre- 
sponding to  his  privileges?  You  have  paid 
five  cents  for  that  newspaper.  It  is  yours. 
You  have  the  right  to  read  it  when  and  where 
you  will.  Much  of  what  is  in  it  is  neither 
helped  nor  harmed  by  time  and  place  and 
mood;  some  of  it  actually  requires  to  be  read 
at  once — while  it  is  fizzing.  But  my  story  is 
not  of  that  character.  It  is  not  *  the  very  lat- 
est advices'  from  Ghostland.  You  are  not 
expected  to  keep  yourself  au  courant  with 
what  is  going  on  in  the  realm  of  spooks.  The 
stuff  will  keep  until  you  have  leisure  to  put 
yourself  into  the  frame  of  mind  appropriate 
to  the  sentiment  of  the  piece — which  I  respect- 
fully submit  that  you  cannot  do  in  a  street  car, 
even  if  you  are  the  only  passenger.  The  soli- 
tude is  not  of  the  right  sort.  An  author 
has  rights  which  the  reader  is  bound  to  re- 
spect." 

"  For  specific  example?" 

"  The  right  to  the  reader's  undivided  atten- 
tion. To  deny  him  this  is  immoral.  To  make 
him  share  your  attention  with  the  rattle  of  a 
street  car,  the  moving  panorama  of  the  crowds 
on  the  sidewalks,  and  the  buildings  beyond — 
with  any  of  the  thousands  of  distractions 
which  make  our  customary  environment — is 


356    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

to  treat  him  with  gross  injustice.  By  God,  it 
is  infamous!" 

The  speaker  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was 
steadying  himself  by  one  of  the  straps  hang- 
ing from  the  roof  of  the  car.  The  other  man 
looked  up  at  him  in  sudden  astonishment, 
wondering  how  so  trivial  a  grievance  could 
seem  to  justify  so  strong  language.  He  saw 
that  his  friend's  face  was  uncommonly  pale 
and  that  his  eyes  glowed  like  living  coals. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  continued  the 
writer,  impetuously  crowding  his  words — 
"you  know  what  I  mean,  Marsh.  My  stuff 
in  this  morning's  Messenger  is  plainly  sub- 
headed  'A  Ghost  Story.'  That  is  ample 
notice  to  all.  Every  honorable  reader  will 
understand  it  as  prescribing  by  implication 
the  conditions  under  which  the  work  is  to  be 
read." 

The  man  addressed  as  Marsh  winced  a  tri- 
fle, then  asked  with  a  smile:  "What  condi- 
tions? You  know  that  I  am  only  a  plain 
business  man  who  cannot  be  supposed  to  un- 
derstand such  things.  How,  when,  where 
should  I  read  your  ghost  story?" 

"  In  solitude— at  night — by  the  light  of  a 
candle.  There  are  certain  emotions  which  a 
writer  can  easily  enough  excite — such  as  com- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE 

passion  or  merriment.  I  can  move  you  to 
tears  or  laughter  under  almost  any  circum- 
stances. But  for  my  ghost  story  to  be  effect- 
ive you  must  be  made  to  feel  fear — at  least  a 
strong  sense  of  the  supernatural — and  that  is 
a  difficult  matter.  I  have  a  right  to  expect 
that  if  you  read  me  at  all  you  will  give  me  a 
chance;  that  you  will  make  yourself  accessible 
to  the  emotion  that  I  try  to  inspire." 

The  car  had  now  arrived  at  its  terminus  and 
stopped.  The  trip  just  completed  was  its  first 
for  the  day  and  the  conversation  of  the  two 
early  passengers  had  not  been  interrupted. 
The  streets  were  yet  silent  and  desolate;  the 
house  tops  were  just  touched  by  the  rising  sun. 
As  they  stepped  from  the  car  and  walked 
away  together  Marsh  narrowly  eyed  his  com- 
panion, who  was  reported,  like  most  men  of 
uncommon  literary  ability,  to  be  addicted  to 
various  destructive  vices.  That  is  the  revenge 
which  dull  minds  take  upon  bright  ones  in  re- 
sentment of  their  superiority.  Mr.  Colston 
was  known  as  a  man  of  genius.  There  are 
honest  souls  who  believe  that  genius  is  a  mode 
of  excess.  It  was  known  that  Colston  did  not 
drink  liquor,  but  many  said  that  he  ate  opium. 
Something  in  his  appearance  that  morning — a 
certain  wildness  of  the  eyes,  an  unusual  pallor, 


858    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

a  thickness  and  rapidity  of  speech — were 
taken  by  Mr.  Marsh  to  confirm  the  report. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  not  the  self-denial  to 
abandon  a  subject  which  he  found  interesting, 
however  it  might  excite  his  friend. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  began,  "  that  if 
I  take  the  trouble  to  observe  your  directions 
— place  myself  in  the  conditions  that  you  de- 
mand: solitude,  night  and  a  tallow  candle — 
you  can  with  your  ghostly  work  give  me  an 
uncomfortable  sense  of  the  supernatural,  as 
you  call  it?  Can  you  accelerate  my  pulse, 
make  me  start  at  sudden  noises,  send  a  nervous 
chill  along  my  spine  and  cause  my  hair  to 
rise?" 

Colston  turned  suddenly  and  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  eyes  as  they  walked.  "  You 
would  not  dare — you  have  not  the  courage," 
he  said.  He  emphasized  the  words  with  a 
contemptuous  gesture.  "You  are  brave 
enough  to  read  me  in  a  street  car,  but — in  a 
deserted  house — alone — in  the  forest — at 
night!  Bah!  I  have  a  manuscript  in  my 
pocket  that  would  kill  you." 

Marsh  was  angry.  He  knew  himself 
courageous,  and  the  words  stung  him.  "If 
you  know  such  a  place,"  he  said,  "take  me 
there  to-night  and  leave  me  your  story  and  a 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        359 

candle.  Call  for  me  when  I've  had  time 
enough  to  read  it  and  I'll  tell  you  the  entire 
plot  and — kick  you  out  of  the  place." 

That  is  how  it  occurred  that  the  farmer's 
boy,  looking  in  at  an  unglazed  window  of  the 
Breede  house,  saw  a  man  sitting  in  the  light 
of  a  candle. 

THE  DAY  AFTER 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  three 
men  and  a  boy  approached  the  Breede  house 
from  that  point  of  the  compass  toward  which 
the  boy  had  fled  the  preceding  night.  The 
men  were  in  high  spirits;  they  talked  very 
loudly  and  laughed.  They  made  facetious 
and  good-humored  ironical  remarks  to  the 
boy  about  his  adventure,  which  evidently  they 
did  not  believe  in.  The  boy  accepted  their 
raillery  with  seriousness,  making  no  reply. 
He  had  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  and 
knew  that  one  who  professes  to  have  seen  a 
dead  man  rise  from  his  seat  and  blow  out  a 
candle  is  not  a  credible  witness. 

Arriving  at  the  house  and  finding  the  door 
unlocked,  the  party  of  investigators  entered 
without  ceremony.  Leading  out  of  the  pass- 
age into  which  this  door  opened  was  another 
on  the  right  and  one  on  the  left.  They  en- 
tered the  room  on  the  left — the  one  which  had 


360    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

the  blank  front  window.     Here  was  the  dead 
body  of  a  man. 

It  lay  partly  on  one  side,  with  the  forearm 
beneath  it,  the  cheek  on  the  floor.  The  eyes 
were  wide  open;  the  stare  was  not  an  agree- 
able thing  to  encounter.  The  lower  jaw  had 
fallen;  a  little  pool  of  saliva  had  collected 
beneath  the  mouth.  An  overthrown  table,  a 
partly  burned  candle,  a  chair  and  some  paper 
with  writing  on  it  were  all  else  that  the  room 
contained.  The  men  looked  at  the  body, 
touching  the  face  in  turn.  The  boy  gravely 
stood  at  the  head,  assuming  a  look  of  owner- 
ship. It  was  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life. 
One  of  the  men  said  to  him,  "  You're  a  good 
'un" — a  remark  which  was  received  by  the 
two  others  with  nods  of  acquiescence.  It  was 
Scepticism  apologizing  to  Truth.  Then  one 
of  the  men  took  from  the  floor  the  sheet  of 
manuscript  and  stepped  to  the  window,  for  al- 
ready the  evening  shadows  were  glooming 
the  forest.  The  song  of  the  whip-poor-will 
was  heard  in  the  distance  and  a  monstrous 
beetle  sped  by  the  window  on  roaring  wings 
,and  thundered  away  out  of  hearing.  The  man 
read: 

THE  MANUSCRIPT 

"  Before  committing  the  act  which,  rightly 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        361 

or  wrongly,  I  have  resolved  on  and  appear- 
ing before  my  Maker  for  judgment,  I,  James 
R.  Colston,  deem  it  my  duty  as  a  journalist  to 
make  a  statement  to  the  public.  My  name 
is,  I  believe,  tolerably  well  known  to  the  peo- 
ple as  a  writer  of  tragic  tales,  but  the  somber- 
est  imagination  never  conceived  anything  so 
tragic  as  my  own  life  and  history.  Not  in 
incident:  my  life  has  been  destitute  of  adven- 
ture and  action.  But  my  mental  career  has 
been  lurid  with  experiences  such  as  kill  and 
damn.  I  shall  not  recount  them  here — some 
of  them  are  written  and  ready  for  publication 
elsewhere.  The  object  of  these  lines  is  to  ex- 
plain to  whomsoever  may  be  interested  that 
my  death  is  voluntary — my  own  act.  I  shall 
die  at  twelve  o'clock  on  the  night  of  the  i^th 
of  July — a  significant  anniversary  to  me,  for 
it  was  on  that  day,  and  at  that  hour,  that  my 
friend  in  time  and  eternity,  Charles  Breede, 
performed  his  vow  to  me  by  the  same  act 
which  his  fidelity  to  our  pledge  now  entails 
upon  me.  He  took  his  life  in  his  little  house 
in  the  Copeton  woods.  There  was  the  cus- 
tomary verdict  of  *  temporary  insanity.'  Had 
I  testified  at  that  inquest — had  I  told  all  I 
knew,  they  would  have  called  me  mad!" 
Here  followed  an  evidently  long  passage 


862    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

which  the  man  reading  read  to  himself  only. 
The  rest  he  read  aloud. 

"  I  have  still  a  week  of  life  in  which  to  ar- 
range my  worldly  affairs  and  prepare  for  the 
great  change.  It  is  enough,  for  I  have  but 
few  affairs  and  it  is  now  four  years  since  death 
became  an  imperative  obligation. 

"  I  shall  bear  this  writing  on  my  body;  the 
finder  will  please  hand  it  to  the  coroner. 

"JAMES  R.  COLSTON. 

"P.  S.-— Willard  Marsh,  on  this  the  fatal 
fifteenth  day  of  July  I  hand  you  this  manu- 
script, to  be  opened  and  read  under  the  con- 
ditions agreed  upon,  and  at  the  place  which 
I  designated.  I  forego  my  intention  to  keep 
it  on  my  body  to  explain  the  manner  of  my 
death,  which  is  not  important.  It  will  serve 
to  explain  the  manner  of  yours.  I  am  to 
call  for  you  during  the  night  to  receive  assur- 
ance that  you  have  read  the  manuscript.  You 
know  me  well  enough  to  expect  me.  But, 
my  friend,  it  will  be  after  twelve  o'clock. 
May  God  have  mercy  on  our  souls! 

"J.  R.  C." 

Before  the  man  who  was  reading  this  man- 
uscript had  finished,  the  candle  had  been 
picked  up  and  lighted.  When  the  reader  had 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        363 

done,  he  quietly  thrust  the  paper  against  the 
flame  and  despite  the  protestations  of  the 
others  held  it  until  it  was  burnt  to  ashes.  The 
man  who  did  this,  and  who  afterward  placidly 
endured  a  severe  reprimand  from  the  coroner, 
was  a  son-in-law  of  the  late  Charles  Breede. 
At  the  inquest  nothing  could  elicit  an  intellig- 
ent account  of  what  the  paper  had  contained. 

FROM  "THE  TIMES" 

"Yesterday  the  Commissioners  of  Lunacy 
committed  to  the  asylum  Mr.  James  R.  Col- 
ston, a  writer  of  some  local  reputation,  con- 
nected with  the  Messenger.  It  will  be  re- 
membered that  on  the  evening  of  the  I5th  inst. 
Mr.  Colston  was  given  into  custody  by  one  of 
his  fellow-lodgers  in  the  Baine  House,  who 
had  observed  him  acting  very  suspiciously, 
baring  his  throat  and  whetting  a  razor — oc- 
casionally trying  its  edge  by  actually  cutting 
through  the  skin  of  his  arm,  etc.  On  being 
handed  over  to  the  police,  the  unfortunate 
man  made  a  desperate  resistance,  and  has  ever 
since  been  so  violent  that  it  has  been  necessary 
to  keep  him  in  a  strait-jacket.  Most  of  our 
esteemed  contemporary's  other  writers  are  still 
at  large." 


364,    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 


THE  BOARDED  WINDOW 

IN  1830,  only  a  few  miles  away  from  what 
is  now  the  great  city  of  Cincinnati,  lay 
an  immense  and  almost  unbroken  forest. 
The  whole  region  was  sparsely  settled  by 
people  of  the  frontier — restless  souls  who  no 
sooner  had  hewn  fairly  habitable  homes  out 
of  the  wilderness  and  attained  to  that  degree 
of  prosperity  which  to-day  we  should  call  in- 
digence than  impelled  by  some  mysterious  im- 
pulse of  their  nature  they  abandoned  all  and 
pushed  farther  westward,  to  encounter  new 
perils  and  privations  in  the  effort  to  regain  the 
meagre  comforts  which  they  had  voluntarily 
renounced.  Many  of  them  had  already  for- 
saken that  region  for  the  remoter  settlements, 
but  among  those  remaining  was  one  who  had 
been  of  those  first  arriving.  He  lived  alone 
in  a  house  of  logs  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
the  great  forest,  of  whose  gloom  and  silence 
he  seemed  a  part,  for  no  one  had  ever  known 
him  to  smile  nor  speak  a  needless  word.  His 
simple  wants  were  supplied  by  the  sale  or 
barter  of  skins  of  wild  animals  in  the  river 
town,  for  not  a  thing  did  he  grow  upon  the 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        365 

land  which,  if  needful,  he  might  have  claimed 
by  right  of  undisturbed  possession.  There 
were  evidences  of  "improvement" — a  few 
acres  of  ground  immediately  about  the  house 
had  once  been  cleared  of  its  trees,  the  decayed 
stumps  of  which  were  half  concealed  by  the 
new  growth  that  had  been  suffered  to  repair 
the  ravage  wrought  by  the  ax.  Apparently 
the  man's  zeal  for  agriculture  had  burned 
with  a  failing  flame,  expiring  in  penitential 
ashes. 

The  little  log  house,  with  its  chimney  of 
sticks,  its  roof  of  warping  clapboards 
weighted  with  traversing  poles  and  its  "  chink- 
ing "  of  clay,  had  a  single  door  and,  directly 
opposite,  a  window.  The  latter,  however, 
was  boarded  up — nobody  could  remember  a 
time  when  it  was  not.  And  none  knew  why 
it  was  so  closed ;  certainly  not  because  of  the 
occupant's  dislike  of  light  and  air,  for  on  those 
rare  occasions  when  a  hunter  had  passed  that 
lonely  spot  the  recluse  had  commonly  been 
seen  sunning  himself  on  his  doorstep  if  heaven 
had  provided  sunshine  for  his  need.  I  fancy 
there  are  few  persons  living  to-day  who  ever 
knew  the  secret  of  that  window,  but  I  am  one, 
as  you  shall  see. 

The  man's  name  was  said  to  be  Murlock. 


366    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

He  was  apparently  seventy  years  old,  actu- 
ally about  fifty.  Something  besides  years  had 
had  a  hand  in  his  aging.  His  hair  and  long, 
full  beard  were  white,  his  gray,  lustreless  eyes 
sunken,  his  face  singularly  seamed  with 
wrinkles  which  appeared  to  belong  to  two  in- 
tersecting systems.  In  figure  he  was  tall  and 
spare,  with  a  stoop  of  the  shoulders — a  burden 
bearer.  I  never  saw  him;  these  particulars  I 
learned  from  my  grandfather,  from  whom 
also  I  got  the  man's  story  when  I  was  a  lad. 
He  had  known  him  when  living  near  by  in 
that  early  day. 

One  day  Murlock  was  found  in  his  cabin, 
dead.  It  was  not  a  time  and  place  for  coron- 
ers and  newspapers,  and  I  suppose  it  was 
agreed  that  he  had  died  from  natural  causes 
or  I  should  have  been  told,  and  should  re- 
member. I  know  only  that  with  what  was 
probably  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  the 
body  was  buried  near  the  cabin,  alongside  the 
grave  of  his  wife,  who  had  preceded  him  by 
so  many  years  that  local  tradition  had  retained 
hardly  a  hint  of  her  existence.  That  closes 
the  final  chapter  of  this  true  story — excepting, 
indeed,  the  circumstance  that  many  years 
afterward,  in  company  with  an  equally  in- 
trepid spirit,  I  penetrated  to  the  place  and 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       367 

ventured  near  enough  to  the  ruined  cabin  to 
throw  a  stone  against  it,  and  ran  away  to  avoid 
the  ghost  which  every  well-informed  boy 
thereabout  knew  haunted  the  spot.  But  there 
is  an  earlier  chapter — that  supplied  by  my 
grandfather. 

When  Murlock  built  his  cabin  and  began 
laying  sturdily  about  with  his  ax  to  hew  out 
a  farm — the  rifle,  meanwhile,  his  means  of 
support — he  was  young,  strong  and  full  of 
hope.  In  that  eastern  country  whence  he 
came  he  had  married,  as  was  the  fashion,  a 
young  woman  in  all  ways  worthy  of  his  hon- 
est devotion,  who  shared  the  dangers  and  priv- 
ations of  his  lot  with  a  willing  spirit  and 
light  heart.  There  is  no  known  record  of  her 
name;  of  her  charms  of  mind  and  person 
tradition  is  silent  and  the  doubter  is  at  liberty 
to  entertain  his  doubt;  but  God  forbid  that  I 
should  share  itl  Of  their  affection  and 
happiness  there  is  abundant  assurance  in  every 
added  day  of  the  man's  widowed  life;  for 
what  but  the  magnetism  of  a  blessed  memory 
could  have  chained  that  venturesome  spirit  to 
a  lot  like  that? 

One  day  Murlock  returned  from  gunning 
in  a  distant  part  of  the  forest  to  find  his  wife 
prostrate  with  fever,  and  delirious.  There 


368    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

was  no  physician  within  miles,  no  neighbor; 
nor  was  she  in  a  condition  to  be  left,  to  sum- 
mon help.  So  he  set  about  the  task  of  nurs- 
ing her  back  to  health,  but  at  the  end  of  the 
third  day  she  fell  into  unconsciousness  and 
so  passed  away,  apparently,  with  never  a 
gleam  of  returning  reason. 

From  what  we  know  of  a  nature  like  his 
we  may  venture  to  sketch  in  some  of  the  de- 
tails of  the  outline  picture  drawn  by  my 
grandfather.  When  convinced  that  she  was 
dead,  Murlock  had  sense  enough  to  remember 
that  the  dead  must  be  prepared  for  burial. 
In  performance  of  this  sacred  duty  he  blun- 
dered now  and  again,  did  certain  things  incor- 
rectly, and  others  which  he  did  correctly  were 
done  over  and  over.  His  occasional  failures 
to  accomplish  some  simple  and  ordinary  act 
filled  him  with  astonishment,  like  that  of  a 
drunken  man  who  wonders  at  the  suspension 
of  familiar  natural  laws.  He  was  surprised, 
too,  that  he  did  not  weep — surprised  and  a 
little  ashamed;  surely  it  is  unkind  not  to  weep 
for  the  dead.  "To-morrow,"  he  said  aloud, 
"  I  shall  have  to  make  the  coffin  and  dig  the 
grave ;  and  then  I  shall  miss  her,  when  she  is 
no  longer  in  sight;  but  now — she  is  dead,  of 
course,  but  it  is  all  right — it  must  be  all  right, 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        369 

somehow.    Things  cannot  be  so  bad  as  they 
seem." 

He  stood  over  the  body  in  the  fading  light, 
adjusting  the  hair  and  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  simple  toilet,  doing  all  me- 
chanically, with  soulless  care.  And  still 
through  his  consciousness  ran  an  undersense  of 
conviction  that  all  was  right — that  he  should 
have  her  again  as  before,  and  everything  ex- 
plained. He  had  had  no  experience  in  grief; 
his  capacity  had  not  been  enlarged  by  use. 
His  heart  could  not  contain  it  all,  nor  his 
imagination  rightly  conceive  it.  He  did  not 
know  he  was  so  hard  struck;  that  knowledge 
would  come  later,  and  never  go.  Grief  is  an 
artist  of  powers  as  various  as  the  instruments 
upon  which  he  plays  his  dirges  for  the  dead, 
evoking  from  some  the  sharpest,  shrillest 
notes,  from  others  the  low,  grave  chords  that 
throb  recurrent  like  the  slow  beating  of  a  dis- 
tant drum.  Some  natures  it  startles;  some  it 
stupefies.  To  one  it  comes  like  the  stroke  of 
an  arrow,  stinging  all  the  sensibilities  to  a 
keener  life;  to  another  as  the  blow  of  a 
bludgeon,  which  in  crushing  benumbs.  We 
may  conceive  Murlock  to  have  been  that  way 
affected,  for  (and  here  we  are  upon  surer 
ground  than  that  of  conjecture)  no  sooner  had 


370    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

he  finished  his  pious  work  than,  sinking  into 
a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  table  upon  which  the 
body  lay,  and  noting  how  white  the  profile 
showed  in  the  deepening  gloom,  he  laid  his 
arms  upon  the  table's  edge,  and  dropped  his 
face  into  them,  tearless  yet  and  unutterably 
weary.  At  that  moment  came  in  through  the 
open  window  a  long,  wailing  sound  like  the 
cry  of  a  lost  child  in  the  far  deeps  of  the  dark- 
ening wood!  But  the  man  did  not  move. 
Again,  and  nearer  than  before,  sounded  that 
unearthly  cry  upon  his  failing  sense.  Per- 
haps it  was  a  wild  beast;  perhaps  it  was  a 
dream.  For  Murlock  was  asleep. 

Some  hours  later,  as  it  afterward  appeared, 
this  unfaithful  watcher  awoke  and  lifting  his 
head  from  his  arms  intently  listened — he  knew 
not  why.  There  in  the  black  darkness  by  the 
side  of  the  dead,  recalling  all  without  a  shock, 
he  strained  his  eyes  to  see — he  knew  not  what. 
His  senses  were  all  alert,  his  breath  was  sus- 
pended, his  blood  had  stilled  its  tides  as  if  to 
assist  the  silence.  Who— what  had  waked 
him,  and  where  was  it? 

Suddenly  the  table  shook  beneath  his  arms, 
and  at  the  same  moment  he  heard,  or  fancied 
that  he  heard,  a  light,  soft  step— another — 
sounds  as  of  bare  feet  upon  the  floor! 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       371 

He  was  terrified  beyond  the  power  to  cry 
out  or  move.  Perforce  he  waited — waited 
there  in  the  darkness  through  seeming  cent- 
uries of  such  dread  as  one  may  know,  yet 
live  to  tell.  He  tried  vainly  to  speak  the  dead 
woman's  name,  vainly  to  stretch  forth  his  hand 
across  the  table  to  learn  if  she  were  there. 
His  throat  was  powerless,  his  arms  and  hands 
were  like  lead.  Then  occurred  something 
most  frightful.  Some  heavy  body  seemed 
hurled  against  the  table  with  an  impetus  that 
pushed  it  against  his  breast  so  sharply  as 
nearly  to  overthrow  him,  and  at  the  same  in- 
stant he  heard  and  felt  the  fall  of  something 
upon  the  floor  with  so  violent  a  thump  that  the 
whole  house  was  shaken  by  the  impact.  A 
scuffling  ensued,  and  a  confusion  of  sounds 
impossible  to  describe.  Murlock  had  risen  to 
his  feet.  Fear  had  by  excess  forfeited  control 
of  his  faculties.  He  flung  his  hands  upon  the 
table.  Nothing  was  there! 

There  is  a  point  at  which  terror  may  turn 
to  madness;  and  madness  incites  to  action. 
With  no  definite  intent,  from  no  motive  but 
the  wayward  impulse  of  a  madman,  Murlock 
sprang  to  the  wall,  with  a  little  groping  seized 
his  loaded  rifle,  and  without  aim  discharged 
it.  By  the  flash  which  lit  up  the  room  with  a 


872    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

vivid  illumination,  he  saw  an  enormous 
panther  dragging  the  dead  woman  toward  the 
window,  its  teeth  fixed  in  her  throat!  Then 
there  were  darkness  blacker  than  before,  and 
silence ;  and  when  he  returned  to  consciousness 
the  sun  was  high  and  the  wood  vocal  with 
songs  of  birds. 

The  body  lay  near  the  window,  where  the 
beast  had  left  it  when  frightened  away  by  the 
flash  and  report  of  the  rifle.  The  clothing 
was  deranged,  the  long  hair  in  disorder,  the 
limbs  lay  anyhow.  From  the  throat,  dread- 
fully lacerated,  had  issued  a  pool  of  blood  not 
yet  entirely  coagulated.  The  ribbon  with 
which  he  had  bound  the  wrists  was  broken; 
the  hands  were  tightly  clenched.  Between 
the  teeth  was  a  fragment  of  the  animal's  ear. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       373 


A  LADY  FROM  REDHORSE 

CORONADO,  JUNE  20. 

I  FIND  myself  more  and  more  interested 
in  him.  It  is  not,  I  am  sure,  his — do  you 
know  any  good  noun  corresponding  to 
the  adjective  "handsome"?  One  does 
not  like  to  say  "beauty"  when  speaking  of  a 
man.  He  is  beautiful  enough,  Heaven 
knows;  I  should  not  even  care  to  trust  you 
with  him — faithfulest  of  all  possible  wives 
that  you  are — when  he  looks  his  best,  as  he 
always  does.  Nor  do  I  think  the  fascination 
of  his  manner  has  much  to  do  with  it.  You 
recollect  that  the  charm  of  art  inheres  in  that 
which  is  undefinable,  and  to  you  and  me,  my 
dear  Irene,  I  fancy  there  is  rather  less  of  that 
in  the  branch  of  art  under  consideration  than 
to  girls  in  their  first  season.  I  fancy  I  know 
how  my  fine  gentleman  produces  many  of  his 
effects  and  could  perhaps  give^him  a  pointer 
on  heightening  them.  Nevertheless,  his  man- 
ner is  something  truly  delightful.  I  suppose 
what  interests  me  chiefly  is  the  man's  brains. 
His  conversation  is  the  best  I  have  ever  heard 
and  altogether  unlike  any  one  else's.  He 


874    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

seems  to  know  everything,  as  indeed  he  ought, 
for  he  has  been  everywhere,  read  everything, 
seen  all  there  is  to  see — sometimes  I  think 
rather  more  than  is  good  for  him — and  had 
acquaintance  with  the  queerest  people.  And 
then  his  voice — Irene,  when  I  hear  it  I  actu- 
ally feel  as  if  I  ought  to  have  paid  at  the  door, 
though  of  course  it  is  my  own  door. 

JULY  3. 

I  fear  my  remarks  about  Dr.  Barritz  must 
have  been,  being  thoughtless,  very  silly,  or  you 
would  not  have  written  of  him  with  such 
levity,  not  to  say  disrespect.  Believe  me, 
dearest,  he  has  more  dignity  and  seriousness 
(of  the  kind,  I  mean,  which  is  not  inconsistent 
with  a  manner  sometimes  playful  and  always 
charming)  than  any  of  the  men  that  you  and 
I  ever  met.  And  young  Raynor — you  knew 
Raynor  at  Monterey — tells  me  that  the  men  all 
like  him  and  that  he  is  treated  with  something 
like  deference  everywhere.  There  is  a  mys- 
tery, too — something  about  his  connection 
with  the  Blavatsky  people  in  Northern  India. 
Raynor  either  would  not  or  could  not  tell  me 
the  particulars.  I  infer  that  Dr.  Barritz  is 
thought — don't  you  dare  to  laugh! — a  magi- 
cian. Could  anything  be  finer  than  that? 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        375 

An  ordinary  mystery  is  not,  of  course,  so  good 
as  a  scandal,  but  when  it  relates  to  dark  and 
dreadful  practices — to  the  exercise  of  un- 
earthly powers — could  anything  be  more 
piquant?  It  explains,  too,  the  singular  in- 
fluence the  man  has  upon  me.  It  is  the  un- 
definable  in  his  art — black  art.  Seriously, 
dear,  I  quite  tremble  when  he  looks  me  full  in 
the  eyes  with  those  unfathomable  orbs  of  his, 
which  I  have  already  vainly  attempted  to  de- 
scribe to  you.  How  dreadful  if  he  has  the 
power  to  make  one  fall  in  love!  Do  you 
know  if  the  Blavatsky  crowd  have  that  power 
— outside  of  Sepoy? 

JULY  1 6. 

The  strangest  thing!  Last  evening  while 
Auntie  was  attending  one  of  the  hotel  hops 
(I  hate  them)  Dr.  Barritz  called.  It  was 
scandalously  late — I  actually  believe  that  he 
had  talked  with  Auntie  in  the  ballroom  and 
learned  from  her  that  I  was  alone.  I  had 
been  all  the  evening  contriving  how  to  worm 
out  of  him  the  truth  about  his  connection  with 
the  Thugs  in  Sepoy,  and  all  of  that  black 
business,  but  the  moment  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
me  (for  I  admitted  him,  I'm  ashamed  to  say) 
I  was  helpless.  I  trembled,  I  blushed,  I — O 


are  THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

Irene,  Irene,  I  love  the  man  beyond  expres- 
sion and  you  know  how  it  is  yourself. 

Fancy!  I,  an  ugly  duckling  from  Redhorse 
•— daughter  (they  say)  of  old  Calamity  Jim — 
certainly  his  heiress,  with  no  living  relation 
but  an  absurd  old  aunt  who  spoils  me  a 
thousand  and  fifty  ways — absolutely  destitute 
of  everything  but  a  million  dollars  and  a  hope 
in  Paris, — I  daring  to  love  a  god  like  him! 
My  dear,  if  I  had  you  here  I  could  tear  your 
hair  out  with  mortification. 

I  am  convinced  that  he  is  aware  of  my  feel- 
ing, for  he  stayed  but  a  few  moments,  said 
nothing  but  what  another  man  might  have 
said  half  as  well,  and  pretending  that  he  had 
an  engagement  went  away.  I  learned  to-day 
(a  little  bird  told  me — the  bell-bird)  that  he 
went  straight  to  bed.  How  does  that  strike 
you  as  evidence  of  exemplary  habits? 

JULY  17. 

That  little  wretch,  Raynor,  called  yester- 
day and  his  babble  set  me  almost  wild.  He 
never  runs  down — that  is  to  say,  when  he  ex- 
terminates a  score  of  reputations,  more  or  less, 
he  does  not  pause  between  one  reputation  and 
the  next.  (By  the  way,  he  inquired  about 
you,  and  his  manifestations  of  interest  in  you 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        377 

had,  I  confess,  a  good  deal  of  vraisemblance.) 
Mr.  Raynor  observes  no  game  laws;  like 
Death  (which  he  would  inflict  if  slander  were 
fatal)  he  has  all  seasons  for  his  own.  But  I 
like  him,  for  we  knew  each  other  at  Redhorse 
when  we  were  young.  He  was  known  in 
those  days  as  "  Giggles,"  and  I — O  Irene,  can 
you  ever  forgive  me? — I  was  called  "  Gunny." 
God  knows  why;  perhaps  in  allusion  to  the 
material  of  my  pinafores;  perhaps  because 
the  name  is  in  alliteration  with  "Giggles," 
for  Gig  and  I  were  inseparable  playmates, 
and  the  miners  may  have  thought  it  a  delicate 
civility  to  recognize  some  kind  of  relationship 
between  us. 

Later,  we  took  in  a  third — another  of  Ad- 
versity's brood,  who,  like  Garrick  between 
Tragedy  and  Comedy,  had  a  chronic  inability 
to  adjudicate  the  rival  claims  of  Frost  and 
Famine.  Between  him  and  misery  there  was 
seldom  anything  more  than  a  single  suspender 
and  the  hope  of  a  meal  which  would  at  the 
same  time  support  life  and  make  it  insupport- 
able. He  literally  picked  up  a  precarious  liv- 
ing for  himself  and  an  aged  mother  by 
"chloriding  the  dumps,"  that  is  to  say,  the 
miners  permitted  him  to  search  the  heaps  of 
waste  rock  for  such  pieces  of  "pay  ore"  as 


878    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

had  been  overlooked ;  and  these  he  sacked  up 
and  sold  at  the  Syndicate  Mill.  He  became 
a  member  of  our  firm — "  Gunny,  Giggles,  and 
Dumps  "  thenceforth — through  my  favor ;  for 
I  could  not  then,  nor  can  I  now,  be  indifferent 
to  his  courage  and  prowess  in  defending 
against  Giggles  the  immemorial  right  of  his 
sex  to  insult  a  strange  and  unprotected  female 
— myself.  After  old  Jim  struck  it  in  the 
Calamity  and  I  began  to  wear  shoes  and  go  to 
school,  and  in  emulation  Giggles  took  to 
washing  his  face  and  became  Jack  Raynor,  of 
Wells,  Fargo  &  Co.,  and  old  Mrs.  Barts  was 
herself  chlorided  to  her  fathers,  Dumps 
drifted  over  to  San  Juan  Smith  and  turned 
stage  driver,  and  was  killed  by  road  agents, 
and  so  forth. 

Why  do  I  tell  you  all  this,  dear?  Because 
it  is  heavy  on  my  heart.  Because  I  walk  the 
Valley  of  Humility.  Because  I  am  subduing 
myself  to  permanent  consciousness  of  my  un- 
worthiness  to  unloose  the  latchet  of  Dr.  Bar- 
ritz's  shoe.  Because,  oh  dear,  oh  dear,  there's 
a  cousin  of  Dumps  at  this  hotel!  I  haven't 
spoken  to  him.  I  never  had  much  acquaint- 
ance with  him, — but  do  you  suppose  he  has 
recognized  me?  Do,  please  give  me  in  your 
next  your  candid,  sure-enough  opinion  about 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       379 

it,  and  say  you  don't  think  so.  Do  you  sup- 
pose He  knows  about  me  already,  and  that 
that  is  why  He  left  me  last  evening  when  He 
saw  that  I  blushed  and  trembled  like  a  fool 
under  His  eyes?  You  know  I  can't  bribe  all 
the  newspapers,  and  I  can't  go  back  on  any- 
body who  was  civil  to  Gunny  at  Redhorse— 
not  if  I'm  pitched  out  of  society  into  the  sea. 
So  the  skeleton  sometimes  rattles  behind  the 
door.  I  never  cared  much  before,  as  you 
know,  but  now — now  it  is  not  the  same.  Jack 
Raynor  I  am  sure  of — he  will  not  tell  Him. 
He  seems,  indeed,  to  hold  Him  in  such  respect 
as  hardly  to  dare  speak  to  Him  at  all,  and  I'm 
a  good  deal  that  way  myself.  Dear,  dear  I  I 
wish  I  had  something  besides  a  million  dol- 
lars! If  Jack  were  three  inches  taller  I'd 
marry  him  alive  and  go  back  to  Redhorse  and 
wear  sackcloth  again  to  the  end  of  my  miser- 
able days. 

JULY  25. 

We  had  a  perfectly  splendid  sunset  last 
evening  and  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it.  I 
ran  away  from  Auntie  and  everybody  and  was 
walking  alone  on  the  beach.  I  expect  you  to 
believe,  you  infidel!  that  I  had  not  looked  out 
of  my  window  on  the  seaward  side  of  the  hotel 
and  seen  Him  walking  alone  on  the  beach.  If 


380    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

you  are  not  lost  to  every  feeling  of  womanly 
delicacy  you  will  accept  my  statement  without 
question.  I  soon  established  myself  under  my 
sunshade  and  had  for  some  time  been  gazing 
out  dreamily  over  the  sea,  when  he  ap- 
proached, walking  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
water — it  was  ebb  tide.  I  assure  you  the  wet 
sand  actually  brightened  about  his  feet!  As 
he  approached  me  he  lifted  his  hat,  saying, 
"  Miss  Dement,  may  I  sit  with  you? — or  will 
you  walk  with  me?  " 

The  possibility  that  neither  might  be  agree- 
able seems  not  to  have  occurred  to  him.  Did 
you  ever  know  such  assurance?  Assurance? 
My  dear,  it  was  gall,  downright  gall!  Well, 
I  didn't  find  it  wormwood,  and  replied,  with 
my  untutored  Redhorse  heart  in  my  throat,  "  I 
— I  shall  be  pleased  to  do  anything."  Could 
words  have  been  more  stupid?  There  are 
depths  of  fatuity  in  me,  friend  o'  my  soul,  that 
are  simply  bottomless! 

He  extended  his  hand,  smiling,  and  I  de- 
livered mine  into  it  without  a  moment's  hesit- 
ation, and  when  his  fingers  closed  about  it  to 
assist  me  to  my  feet  the  consciousness  that  it 
trembled  made  me  blush  worse  than  the  red 
west.  I  got  up,  however,  and  after  a  while, 
observing  that  he  had  not  let  go  my  hand  I 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        381 

pulled  on  it  a  little,  but  unsuccessfully.  He 
simply  held  on,  saying  nothing,  but  looking 
down  into  my  face  with  some  kind  of  smile — 
I  didn't  know — how  could  I  ? — whether  it  was 
affectionate,  derisive,  or  what,  for  I  did  not 
look  at  him.  How  beautiful  he  was! — with 
the  red  fires  of  the  sunset  burning  in  the 
depths  of  his  eyes.  Do  you  know,  dear,  if  the 
Thugs  and  Experts  of  the  Blavatsky  region 
have  any  special  kind  of  eyes?  Ah,  you 
should  have  seen  his  superb  attitude,  the  god- 
like inclination  of  his  head  as  he  stood  over 
me  after  I  had  got  upon  my  feet!  It  was  a 
noble  picture,  but  I  soon  destroyed  it,  for  I 
began  at  once  to  sink  again  to  the  earth. 
There  was  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  and 
he  did  it;  he  supported  me  with  an  arm  about 
my  waist. 

"  Miss  Dement,  are  you  ill?"  he  said. 

It  was  not  an  exclamation;  there  was 
neither  alarm  nor  solicitude  in  it.  If  he  had 
added :  "  I  suppose  that  is  about  what  I  am 
expected  to  say,"  he  would  hardly  have  ex- 
pressed his  sense  of  the  situation  more  clearly. 
His  manner  filled  me  with  shame  and  in- 
dignation, for  I  was  suffering  acutely.  I 
wrenched  my  hand  out  of  his,  grasped  the  arm 
supporting  me  and  pushing  myself  free,  fell 


882    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

plump  into  the  sand  and  sat  helpless.  My  hat 
had  fallen  off  in  the  struggle  and  my  hair 
tumbled  about  my  face  and  shoulders  in  the 
most  mortifying  way. 

"  Go  away  from  me,"  I  cried,  half  choking. 
"  O  please  go  away,  you — you  Thug!  How 
dare  you  think  that  when  my  leg  is  asleep?" 

I  actually  said  those  identical  words !  And 
then  I  broke  down  and  sobbed.  Irene,  I 
blubbered! 

His  manner  altered  in  an  instant — I  could 
see  that  much  through  my  fingers  and  hair. 
He  dropped  on  one  knee  beside  me,  parted 
the  tangle  of  hair  and  said  in  the  tenderest 
way:  "My  poor  girl,  God  knows  I  have  not 
intended  to  pain  you.  How  should  I? — I 
who  love  you — I  who  have  loved  you  for — for 
years  and  years  1 " 

He  had  pulled  my  wet  hands  away  from 
my  face  and  was  covering  them  with  kisses. 
My  cheeks  were  like  two  coals,  my  whole  face 
was  flaming  and,  I  think,  steaming.  What 
could  I  do?  I  hid  it  on  his  shoulder — there 
was  no  other  place.  And,  O  my  dear  friend, 
how  my  leg  tingled  and  thrilled,  and  how  I 
wanted  to  kick! 

We  sat  so  for  a  long  time.  He  had  re- 
leased one  of  my  hands  to  pass  his  arm  about 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        383 

me  again  and  I  possessed  myself  of  my  hand- 
kerchief and  was  drying  my  eyes  and  my  nose. 
I  would  not  look  up  until  that  was  done;  he 
tried  in  vain  to  push  me  a  little  away  and 
gaze  into  my  face.  Presently,  when  all  was 
right,  and  it  had  grown  a  bit  dark,  I  lifted  my 
head,  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  and 
smiled  my  best — my  level  best,  dear. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "by  ' years 
and  years'?" 

"  Dearest,"  he  replied,  very  gravely,  very 
earnestly,  "  in  the  absence  of  the  sunken 
cheeks,  the  hollow  eyes,  the  lank  hair,  the 
slouching  gait,  the  rags,  dirt,  and  youth,  can 
you  not — will  you  not  understand?  Gunny, 
I'm  Dumps!" 

In  a  moment  I  was  upon  my  feet  and  he 
upon  his.  I  seized  him  by  the  lapels  of  his 
coat  and  peered  into  his  handsome  face  in  the 
deepening  darkness.  I  was  breathless  with 
excitement. 

"And  you  are  not  dead?"  I  asked,  hardly 
knowing  what  I  said. 

"Only  dead  in  love,  dear.  I  recovered 
from  the  road  agent's  bullet,  but  this,  I  fear,  is 
fatal." 

"But  about  Jack — Mr.  Raynor?  Don't 
you  know " 


384    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  darling,  that  it  was 
through  that  unworthy  person's  suggestion 
that  I  came  here  from  Vienna." 

Irene,  they  have  roped  in  your  affectionate 
friend, 

MARY  JANE  DEMENT. 

P.  S. — The  worst  of  it  is  that  there  is  no 
mystery;  that  was  the  invention  of  Jack  Ray- 
nor,  to  arouse  my  curiosity.  James  is  not  a 
Thug.  He  solemnly  assures  me  that  in  all  his 
wanderings  he  has  never  set  foot  in  Sepoy. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE        385 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  PANTHER 


ONE  DOES  NOT  ALWAYS  MARRY  WHEN  INSANE 

A  MAN  and  a  woman — nature  had 
done  the  grouping — sat  on  a  rustic 
seat,  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  man 
was  middle-aged,  slender,  swarthy, 
with  the  expression  of  a  poet  and  the  complex- 
ion of  a  pirate— a  man  at  whom  one  would 
look  again.  The  woman  was  young,  blonde, 
graceful,  with  something  in  her  figure  and 
movements  suggesting  the  word  "  lithe."  She 
was  habited  in  a  gray  gown  with  odd  brown 
markings  in  the  texture.  She  may  have  been 
beautiful ;  one  could  not  readily  say,  for  her 
eyes  denied  attention  to  all  else.  They  were 
gray-green,  long  and  narrow,  with  an  expres- 
sion defying  analysis.  One  could  only  know 
that  they  were  disquieting.  Cleopatra  may 
have  had  such  eyes. 

The  man  and  the  woman  talked. 
"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  love  you,  God 
knows!     But  marry  you,  no.     I  cannot,  will 


386    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"Irene,  you  have  said  that  many  times, 
yet  always  have  denied  me  a  reason.  I've  a 
right  to  know,  to  understand,  to  feel  and 
prove  my  fortitude  if  I  have  it.  Give  me  a 
reason." 

"  For  loving  you?" 

The  woman  was  smiling  through  her  tears 
and  her  pallor.  That  did  not  stir  any  sense 
of  humor  in  the  man. 

"  No ;  there  is  no  reason  for  that.  A  reason 
for  not  marrying  me.  IVe  a  right  to  know. 
I  must  know.  I  will  know! " 

He  had  risen  and  was  standing  before  her 
with  clenched  hands,  on  his  face  a  frown — it 
might  have  been  called  a  scowl.  He  looked 
as  if  he  might  attempt  to  learn  by  strangling 
her.  She  smiled  no  more — merely  sat  look- 
ing up  into  his  face  with  a  fixed,  set  regard 
that  was  utterly  without  emotion  or  sentiment. 
Yet  it  had  something  in  it  that  tamed  his  re- 
sentment and  made  him  shiver. 

"You  are  determined  to  have  my  reason?" 
she  asked  in  a  tone  that  was  entirely  mechan- 
ical— a  tone  that  might  have  been  her  look 
made  audible. 

"If  you  please — if  I'm  not  asking  too 
much." 

Apparently  this  lord  of  creation  was  yield- 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        387 

ing  some  part  of  his  dominion  over  his  co- 
creature. 

"Very  well,  you  shall  know:  I  am  in- 
sane." 

The  man  started,  then  looked  incredulous 
and  was  conscious  that  he  ought  to  be  amused. 
But,  again,  the  sense  of  humor  failed  him  in 
his  need  and  despite  his  disbelief  he  was  pro- 
foundly disturbed  by  that  which  he  did  not 
believe.  Between  our  convictions  and  our 
feelings  there  is  no  good  understanding. 

"That  is  what  the  physicians  would  say," 
the  woman  continued — "  if  they  knew.  I 
might  myself  prefer  to  call  it  a  case  of  l  pos- 
session.' Sit  down  and  hear  what  I  have  to 
say." 

The  man  silently  resumed  his  seat  beside 
her  on  the  rustic  bench  by  the  wayside.  Over- 
against  them  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  valley 
the  hills  were  already  sunset-flushed  and  the 
stillness  all  about  was  of  that  peculiar  quality 
that  foretells  the  twilight.  Something  of 
its  mysterious  and  significant  solemnity  had 
imparted  itself  to  the  man's  mood.  In  the 
spiritual,  as  in  the  material  world,  are  signs 
and  presages  of  night.  Rarely  meeting  her 
look,  and  whenever  he  did  so  conscious  of  the 
indefinable  dread  with  which,  despite  their 


388    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

feline  beauty,  her  eyes  always  affected  him, 
Jenner  Brading  listened  in  silence  to  the  story 
told  by  Irene  Marlowe.  In  deference  to  the 
reader's  possible  prejudice  against  the  artless 
method  of  an  unpractised  historian  the  author 
ventures  to  substitute  his  own  version  for  hers. 

II 

A    ROOM   MAY    BE   TOO    NARROW    FOR   THREE, 
THOUGH  ONE  IS  OUTSIDE 

In  a  little  log  house  containing  a  single 
room  sparely  and  rudely  furnished,  crouch- 
ing on  the  floor  against  one  of  the  walls,  was 
a  woman,  clasping  to  her  breast  a  child.  Out- 
side, a  dense  unbroken  forest  extended  for 
many  miles  in  every  direction.  This  was  at 
night  and  the  room  was  black  dark:  no  human 
eye  could  have  discerned  the  woman  and  the 
child.  Yet  they  were  observed,  narrowly, 
vigilantly,  with  never  even  a  momentary 
slackening  of  attention ;  and  that  is  the  pivotal 
fact  upon  which  this  narrative  turns. 

Charles  Marlowe  was  of  the  class,  now  ex- 
tinct in  this  country,  of  woodmen  pioneers — 
men  who  found  their  most  acceptable  sur- 
roundings in  sylvan  solitudes  that  stretched 
along  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Mississippi  Val- 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        389 

ley,  from  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  Gulf  of  Mex- 
ico. For  more  than  a  hundred  years  these 
men  pushed  ever  westward,  generation  after 
generation,  with  rifle  and  ax,  reclaiming 
from  Nature  and  her  savage  children  here 
and  there  an  isolated  acreage  for  the  plow,  no 
sooner  reclaimed  than  surrendered  to  their 
less  venturesome  but  more  thrifty  successors. 
At  last  they  burst  through  the  edge  of  the 
forest  into  the  open  country  and  vanished  as 
if  they  had  fallen  over  a  cliff.  The  woodman 
pioneer  is  no  more;  the  pioneer  of  the  plains — 
he  whose  easy  task  it  was  to  subdue  for  occu- 
pancy two-thirds  of  the  country  in  a  single 
generation — is  another  and  inferior  creation. 
With  Charles  Marlowe  in  the  wilderness, 
sharing  the  dangers,  hardships  and  privations 
of  that  strange,  unprofitable  life,  were  his  wife 
and  child,  to  whom,  in  the  manner  of  his 
class,  in  which  the  domestic  virtues  were  a 
religion,  he  was  passionately  attached.  The 
woman  was  still  young  enough  to  be  comely, 
new  enough  to  the  awful  isolation  of  her  lot 
to  be  cheerful.  By  withholding  the  large 
capacity  for  happiness  which  the  simple  satis- 
factions of  the  forest  life  could  not  have  filled, 
Heaven  had  dealt  honorably  with  her.  In  her 
light  household  tasks,  her  child,  her  husband 


390    THE   COLLECTED  WORKS 

and  her  few  foolish  books,  she  found  abundant 
provision  for  her  needs. 

One  morning  in  midsummer  Marlowe  took 
down  his  rifle  from  the  wooden  hooks  on  the 
wall  and  signified  his  intention  of  getting 
game. 

"We've  meat  enough,"  said  the  wife; 
"  please  don't  go  out  to-day.  I  dreamed  last 
night,  O,  such  a  dreadful  thing!  I  cannot 
recollect  it,  but  I'm  almost  sure  that  it  will 
come  to  pass  if  you  go  out." 

It  is  painful  to  confess  that  Marlowe  re- 
ceived this  solemn  statement  with  less  of  grav- 
ity than  was  due  to  the  mysterious  nature  of 
the  calamity  foreshadowed.  In  truth,  he 
laughed. 

"  Try  to  remember,"  he  said.  "  Maybe  you 
dreamed  that  Baby  had  lost  the  power  of 
speech." 

The  conjecture  was  obviously  suggested  by 
the  fact  that  Baby,  clinging  to  the  fringe  of  his 
hunting-coat  with  all  her  ten  pudgy  thumbs 
was  at  that  moment  uttering  her  sense  of  the 
situation  in  a  series  of  exultant  goo-goos  in- 
spired by  sight  of  her  father's  raccoon-skin 
cap. 

The  woman  yielded:  lacking  the  gift  of 
humor  she  could  not  hold  out  against  his 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        391 

kindly  badinage.  So,  with  a  kiss  for  the 
mother  and  a  kiss  for  the  child,  he  left  the 
house  and  closed  the  door  upon  his  happiness 
forever. 

At  nightfall  he  had  not  returned.  The 
woman  prepared  supper  and  waited.  Then 
she  put  Baby  to  bed  and  sang  softly  to  her 
until  she  slept.  By  this  time  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  at  which  she  had  cooked  supper,  had 
burned  out  and  the  room  was  lighted  by  a 
single  candle.  This  she  afterward  placed  in 
the  open  window  as  a  sign  and  welcome  to  the 
hunter  if  he  should  approach  from  that  side. 
She  had  thoughtfully  closed  and  barred  the 
door  against  such  wild  animals  as  might  pre- 
fer it  to  an  open  window — of  the  habits  of 
beasts  of  prey  in  entering  a  house  uninvited 
she  was  not  advised,  though  with  true  female 
prevision  she  may  have  considered  the  possi- 
bility of  their  entrance  by  way  of  the  chimney. 
As  the  night  wore  on  she  became  not  less 
anxious,  but  more  drowsy,  and  at  last  rested 
her  arms  upon  the  bed  by  the  child  and  her 
head  upon  the  arms.  The  candle  in  the  win- 
dow burned  down  to  the  socket,  sputtered  and 
flared  a  moment  and  went  out  unobserved ;  for 
the  woman  slept  and  dreamed. 

In  her  dreams  she  sat  beside  the  cradle  of  a 


892    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

second  child.  The  first  one  was  dead.  The 
father  was  dead.  The  home  in  the  forest  was 
lost  and  the  dwelling  in  which  she  lived  was 
unfamiliar.  There  were  heavy  oaken  doors, 
always  closed,  and  outside  the  windows, 
fastened  into  the  thick  stone  walls,  were  iron 
bars,  obviously  (so  she  thought)  a  provision 
against  Indians.  All  this  she  noted  with  an 
infinite  self-pity,  but  without  surprise — an 
emotion  unknown  in  dreams.  The  child  in 
the  cradle  was  invisible  under  its  coverlet 
which  something  impelled  her  to  remove. 
She  did  so,  disclosing  the  face  of  a  wild  ani- 
mal I  In  the  shock  of  this  dreadful  revelation 
the  dreamer  awoke,  trembling  in  the  darkness 
of  her  cabin  in  the  wood. 

As  a  sense  of  her  actual  surroundings  came 
slowly  back  to  her  she  felt  for  the  child  that 
was  not  a  dream,  and  assured  herself  by  its 
breathing  that  all  was  well  with  it;  nor  could 
she  forbear  to  pass  a  hand  lightly  across  its 
face.  Then,  moved  by  some  impulse  for 
which  she  probably  could  not  have  accounted, 
she  rose  and  took  the  sleeping  babe  in  her 
arms,  holding  it  close  against  her  breast.  The 
head  of  the  child's  cot  was  against  the  wall 
to  which  the  woman  now  turned  her  back  as 
she  stood.  Lifting  her  eyes  she  saw  two  bright 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        393 

objects  starring  the  darkness  with  a  reddish- 
green  glow.  She  took  them  to  be  two  coals  on 
the  hearth,  but  with  her  returning  sense  of 
direction  came  the  disquieting  consciousness 
that  they  were  not  in  that  quarter  of  the  room, 
moreover  were  too  high,  being  nearly  at  the 
level  of  the  eyes — of  her  own  eyes.  For  these 
were  the  eyes  of  a  panther. 

The  beast  was  at  the  open  window  directly 
opposite  and  not  five  paces  away.  Nothing 
but  those  terrible  eyes  was  visible,  but  in 
the  dreadful  tumult  of  her  feelings  as  the 
situation  disclosed  itself  to  her  understanding 
she  somehow  knew  that  the  animal  was  stand- 
ing on  its  hinder  feet,  supporting  itself  with 
its  paws  on  the  window-ledge.  That  signified 
a  malign  interest — not  the  mere  gratification 
of  an  indolent  curiosity.  The  consciousness 
of  the  attitude  was  an  added  horror,  accentuat- 
ing the  menace  of  those  awful  eyes,  in  whose 
steadfast  fire  her  strength  and  courage  were 
alike  consumed.  Under  their  silent  question- 
ing she  shuddered  and  turned  sick.  Her 
knees  failed  her,  and  by  degrees,  instinctively 
striving  to  avoid  a  sudden  movement  that 
might  bring  the  beast  upon  her,  she  sank  to  the 
floor,  crouched  against  the  wall  and  tried  to 
shield  the  babe  with  her  trembling  body  with- 


894.    THE  COLLECTED  WORKS 

out  withdrawing  her  gaze  from  the  luminous 
orbs  that  were  killing  her.  No  thought  of  her 
husband  came  to  her  in  her  agony — no  hope 
nor  suggestion  of  rescue  or  escape.  Her 
capacity  for  thought  and  feeling  had  nar- 
rowed to  the  dimensions  of  a  single  emotion — 
fear  of  the  animal's  spring,  of  the  impact  of  its 
body,  the  buffeting  of  its  great  arms,  the  feel 
of  its  teeth  in  her  throat,  the  mangling  of  her 
babe.  Motionless  now  and  in  absolute  si- 
lence, she  awaited  her  doom,  the  moments 
growing  to  hours,  to  years,  to  ages;  and  still 
those  devilish  eyes  maintained  their  watch. 

Returning  to  his  cabin  late  at  night  with 
a  deer  on  his  shoulders  Charles  Marlowe  tried 
the  door.  It  did  not  yield.  He  knocked; 
there  was  no  answer.  He  laid  down  his  deer 
and  went  round  to  the  window.  As  he  turned 
the  angle  of  the  building  he  fancied  he  heard 
a  sound  as  of  stealthy  footfalls  and  a  rustling 
in  the  undergrowth  of  the  forest,  but  they 
were  too  slight  for  certainty,  even  to  his 
practised  ear.  Approaching  the  window,  and 
to  his  surprise  finding  it  open,  he  threw  his 
leg  over  the  sill  and  entered.  All  was  dark- 
ness and  silence.  He  groped  his  way  to  the 
fire-place,  struck  a  match  and  lit  a  candle. 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE       395 

Then  he  looked  about.  Cowering  on  the  floor 
against  a  wall  was  his  wife,  clasping  his  child. 
As  he  sprang  toward  her  she  rose  and  broke 
into  laughter,  long,  loud,  and  mechanical,  de- 
void of  gladness  and  devoid  of  sense — the 
laughter  that  is  not  out  of  keeping  with  the 
clanking  of  a  chain.  Hardly  knowing  what 
he  did  he  extended  his  arms.  She  laid  the 
babe  in  them.  It  was  dead — pressed  to  death 
in  its  mother's  embrace. 

Ill 
THE  THEORY  OF  THE  DEFENSE 

That  is  what  occurred  during  a  night  in  a 
forest,  but  not  all  of  it  did  Irene  Marlowe  re- 
late to  Jenner  Brading;  not  all  of  it  was 
known  to  her.  When  she  had  concluded  the 
sun  was  below  the  horizon  and  the  long  sum- 
mer twilight  had  begun  to  deepen  in  the  hol- 
lows of  the  land.  For  some  moments  Brading 
was  silent,  expecting  the  narrative  to  be  car- 
ried forward  to  some  definite  connection  with 
the  conversation  introducing  it;  but  the  nar- 
rator was  as  silent  as  he,  her  face  averted,  her 
hands  clasping  and  unclasping  themselves  as 
they  lay  in  her  lap,  with  a  singular  suggestion 
of  an  activity  independent  of  her  will. 


396    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

"It  is  a  sad,  a  terrible  story,"  said  Bra- 
ding  at  last,  "  but  I  do  not  understand.  You 
call  Charles  Marlowe  father;  that  I  know. 
That  he  is  old  before  his  time,  broken  by  some 
great  sorrow,  I  have  seen,  or  thought  I  saw. 
But,  pardon  me,  you  said  that  you — that 
you " 

"  That  T  am  insane,"  said  the  girl,  without 
a  movement  of  head  or  body. 

"  But,  Irene,  you  say — please,  dear,  do  not 
look  away  from  me — you  say  that  the  child 
was  dead,  not  demented." 

"Yes,  that  one — I  am  the  second.  I  was 
born  three  months  after  that  night,  my 
mother  being  mercifully  permitted  to  lay 
down  her  life  in  giving  me  mine." 

Brading  was  again  silent;  he  was  a  trifle 
dazed  and  could  not  at  once  think  of  the  right 
thing  to  say.  Her  face  was  still  turned  away. 
In  his  embarrassment  he  reached  impulsively 
toward  the  hands  that  lay  closing  and  unclos- 
ing in  her  lap,  but  something — he  could  not 
have  said  what — restrained  him.  He  then  re- 
membered, vaguely,  that  he  had  never  alto- 
gether cared  to  take  her  hand. 

"  Is  it  likely,"  she  resumed,  "  that  a  person 
born  under  such  circumstances  is  like  others — 
is  what  you  call  sane?" 


OF  AMBROSE  BIERCE        397 

Brading  did  not  reply;  he  was  preoccupied 
with  a  new  thought  that  was  taking  shape  in 
his  mind — what  a  scientist  would  have  called 
an  hypothesis ;  a  detective,  a  theory.  It  might 
throw  an  added  light,  albeit  a  lurid  one,  upon 
such  doubt  of  her  sanity  as  her  own  assertion 
had  not  dispelled. 

The  country  was  still  new  and,  outside  the 
villages,  sparsely  populated.  The  profes- 
sional hunter  was  still  a  familiar  figure,  and 
among  his  trophies  were  heads  and  pelts  of 
the  larger  kinds  of  game.  Tales  variously 
credible  of  nocturnal  meetings  with  savage 
animals  in  lonely  roads  were  sometimes  cur- 
rent, passed  through  the  customary  stages  of 
growth  and  decay,  and  were  forgotten.  A 
recent  addition  to  these  popular  apocrypha, 
originating,  apparently,  by  spontaneous  gen- 
eration in  several  households,  was  of  a  panther 
which  had  frightened  some  of  their  members 
by  looking  in  at  windows  by  night.  The  yarn 
had  caused  its  little  ripple  of  excitement — had 
even  attained  to  the  distinction  of  a  place  in 
the  local  newspaper;  but  Brading  had  given  it 
no  attention.  Its  likeness  to  the  story  to  which 
he  had  just  listened  now  impressed  him  as 
perhaps  more  than  accidental.  Was  it  not 
possible  that  the  one  story  had  suggested  the 


898    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

other — that  finding  congenial  conditions  in  a 
morbid  mind  and  a  fertile  fancy,  it  had  grown 
to  the  tragic  tale  that  he  had  heard? 

Brading  recalled  certain  circumstances  of 
the  girl's  history  and  disposition,  of  which, 
with  love's  incuriosity,  he  had  hitherto  been 
heedless — such  as  her  solitary  life  with  her 
father,  at  whose  house  no  one,  apparently,  was 
an  acceptable  visitor  and  her  strange  fear  of 
the  night,  by  which  those  who  knew  her  best 
accounted  for  her  never  being  seen  after  dark. 
Surely  in  such  a  mind  imagination  once 
kindled  might  burn  with  a  lawless  flame,  pen- 
etrating and  enveloping  the  entire  structure. 
That  she  was  mad,  though  the  conviction 
gave  him  the  acutest  pain,  he  could  no  longer 
doubt;  she  had  only  mistaken  an  effect  of  her 
mental  disorder  for  its  cause,  bringing  into 
imaginary  relation  with  her  own  personality 
the  vagaries  of  the  local  myth-makers.  With 
some  vague  intention  of  testing  his  new 
"  theory,"  and  no  very  definite  notion  of  how 
to  set  about  it  he  said,  gravely,  but  with  hesit- 
ation : 

"  Irene,  dear,  tell  me — I  beg  you  will  not 
take  offence,  but  tell  me " 

"  I  have  told  you,"  she  interrupted,  speak- 
ing with  a  passionate  earnestness  that  he  had 


OF  AMBROSE   BIERCE        399 

not  known  her  to  show — "  I  have  already  told 
you  that  we  cannot  marry;  is  anything  else 
worth  saying?" 

Before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  sprung 
from  her  seat  and  without  another  word  or 
look  was  gliding  away  among  the  trees  toward 
her  father's  house.  Brading  had  risen  to  de- 
tain her;  he  stood  watching  her  in  silence  until 
she  had  vanished  in  the  gloom.  Suddenly  he 
started  as  if  he  had  been  shot;  his  face  took 
on  an  expression  of  amazement  and  alarm:  in 
one  of  the  black  shadows  into  which  she  had 
disappeared  he  had  caught  a  quick,  brief 
glimpse  of  shining  eyes!  For  an  instant  he 
was  dazed  and  irresolute;  then  he  dashed 
into  the  wood  after  her,  shouting:  "Irene, 
Irene,  look  out!  The  panther!  The  panther!" 

In  a  moment  he  had  passed  through  the 
fringe  of  forest  into  open  ground  and  saw 
the  girl's  gray  skirt  vanishing  into  her  father's 
door.  No  panther  was  visible. 

IV 
AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  CONSCIENCE  OF  GOD 

Jenner  Brading,  attorney-at-law,  lived  in  a 
cottage  at  the  edge  of  the  town.  Directly  be- 
hind the  dwelling  was  the  forest.  Being  a 


400    THE    COLLECTED   WORKS 

bachelor,  and  therefore,  by  the  Draconian 
moral  code  of  the  time  and  place  denied  the 
services  of  the  only  species  of  domestic  serv- 
ant known  thereabout,  the  "  hired  girl,"  he 
boarded  at  the  village  hotel,  where  also  was 
his  office.  The  woodside  cottage  was  merely  a 
lodging  maintained — at  no  great  cost,  to  be 
sure — as  an  evidence  of  prosperity  and  re- 
spectability. It  would  hardly  do  for  one  to 
whom  the  local  newspaper  had  pointed  with 
pride  as  "the  foremost  jurist  of  his  time"  to 
be  "  homeless,"  albeit  he  may  sometimes  have 
suspected  that  the  words  "  home "  and 
"house"  were  not  strictly  synonymous.  In- 
deed, his  consciousness  of  the  disparity  and  his 
will  to  harmonize  it  were  matters  of  logical 
inference,  for  it  was  generally  reported  that 
soon  after  the  cottage  was  built  its  owner  had 
made  a  futile  venture  in  the  direction  of  mar- 
riage— had,  in  truth,  gone  so  far  as  to  be  re- 
jected by  the  beautiful  but  eccentric  daughter 
of  Old  Man  Marlowe,  the  recluse.  This  was 
publicly  believed  because  he  had  told  it  him- 
self and  she  had  not — a  reversal  of  the  usual 
order  of  things  which  could  hardly  fail  to 
carry  conviction. 

Brading's  bedroom  was  at  the  rear  of  the 
house,  with  a  single  window  facing  the  forest. 


OF   AMBROSE   BIERCE       401 

One  night  he  was  awakened  by  a  noise  at  that 
window;  he  could  hardly  have  said  what  it 
was  like.  With  a  little  thrill  of  the  nerves  he 
sat  up  in  bed  and  laid  hold  of  the  revolver 
which,  with  a  forethought  most  commend- 
able in  one  addicted  to  the  habit  of  sleeping 
on  the  ground  floor  with  an  open  window,  he 
had  put  under  his  pillow.  The  room  was  in 
absolute  darkness,  but  being  unterrified  he 
knew  where  to  direct  his  eyes,  and  there  he 
held  them,  awaiting  in  silence  what  further 
might  occur.  He  could  now  dimly  discern 
the  aperture — a  square  of  lighter  black. 
Presently  there  appeared  at  its  lower  edge  two 
gleaming  eyes  that  burned  with  a  malignant 
lustre  inexpressibly  terrible!  Brading's  heart 
gave  a  great  jump,  then  seemed  to  stand  still. 
A  chill  passed  along  his  spine  and  through  his 
hair;  he  felt  the  blood  forsake  his  cheeks.  He 
could  not  have  cried  out — not  to  save  his  life ; 
but  being  a  man  of  courage  he  would  not,  to 
save  his  life,  have  done  so  if  he  had  been  able. 
Some  trepidation  his  coward  body  might  feel, 
but  his  spirit  was  of  sterner  stuff.  Slowly  the 
shining  eyes  rose  with  a  steady  motion  that 
seemed  an  approach,  and  slowly  rose  Bra- 
ding's  right  hand,  holding  the  pistol.  He 
fired! 


402    THE   COLLECTED   WORKS 

Blinded  by  the  flash  and  stunned  by  the  re- 
port, Brading  nevertheless  heard,  or  fancied 
that  he  heard,  the  wild,  high  scream  of  the 
panther,  so  human  in  sound,  so  devilish  in 
suggestion.  Leaping  from  the  bed  he  hastily 
clothed  himself  and,  pistol  in  hand,  sprang 
from  the  door,  meeting  two  or  three  men  who 
came  running  up  from  the  road.  A  brief 
explanation  was  followed  by  a  cautious  search 
of  the  house.  The  grass  was  wet  with  dew; 
beneath  the  window  it  had  been  trodden  and 
partly  leveled  for  a  wide  space,  from  which 
a  devious  trail,  visible  in  the  light  of  a  lan- 
tern, led  away  into  the  bushes.  One  of  the 
men  stumbled  and  fell  upon  his  hands,  which 
as  he  rose  and  rubbed  them  together  were 
slippery.  On  examination  they  were  seen  to 
be  red  with  blood. 

An  encounter,  unarmed,  with  a  wounded 
panther  was  not  agreeable  to  their  taste;  all 
but  Brading  turned  back.  He,  with  lantern 
and  pistol,  pushed  courageously  forward  into 
the  wood.  Passing  through  a  difficult  under- 
growth he  came  into  a  small  opening,  and 
there  his  courage  had  its  reward,  for  there  he 
found  the  body  of  his  victim.  But  it  was  no 
panther.  What  it  was  is  told,  even  to  this  day, 
upon  a  weather-worn  headstone  in  the  village 


OF  AMBROSE    BIERCE       403 

churchyard,  and  for  many  years  was  attested 
daily  at  the  graveside  by  the  bent  figure  and 
sorrow-seamed  face  of  Old  Man  Marlowe,  to 
whose  soul,  and  to  the  soul  of  his  strange,  un- 
happy child,  peace.  Peace  and  reparation. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


LO-URL 

JUL081987 


'D  LD-URL 
OCT28 


4WKFEB28 


OGT18 


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